Wolf Heart(Eng)
by natales2017
Summary: Abby Reynolds is camping alone at Allegany State Park in her family's cabin.  She needed a little R&R, but what was supposed to be a normal, relaxing vacation becomes something entirely different when she finds a wolf in the shower building. But was it a wolf?...


Disclaimer: This story does not belong to me, all rights reserved for Bridget Essex.

This is my first publication, actually this story is not a fanfic but I did not know another place to post it. I decided to publish this story because it was very difficult to find it (like many other works) and I wanted to share my search and ask for the opinion of more people. If possible, let someone tell me if this type of publication is allowed.

 **Próximamente subiré la traducción al español.**

Wolf Heart

"Honey, I'm not trying to dissuade you or anything, but it's common knowledge that people who go camping alone in national parks around Halloween almost always end up murdered."

I burst out laughing as I put on my turn signal. My cell phone headset crackles with static as I pull off the main highway, route 86, and head deeper into the mountains of Allegany State Park.

"But what you're saying right now is that my camping alone is _definitely_ going to lead to my murder. I think that counts as dissuading, Mom," I tell her with a shake of my head, chuckling into my Bluetooth headset. "Thanks for the confidence, by the way," I smirk. "Didn't _you_ camp at the family campsite _alone_ when you were _sixteen_?"

"That was a different time," my mother tells me dismissively, and I can almost see her brandishing her coffee mug as she launches into, "There were _far_ fewer serial killers when I was a young woman."

I laugh again as I turn on my brights. The moment I coast beneath the brooding pine trees surrounding the entrance to the state park, the darkness eats up my headlights, and putting on my brights does very little to help with the visibility. I roll down my windows to smell the autumn leaves and the bracing, chill October air; it makes me shiver. Everything here is muffled and dark, which probably sounds much creepier than it actually is...

Okay. I'm lying. It's actually pretty creepy right now. I've never arrived at the park so late in the day, or you know, _night,_ and I didn't expect it to be this pitch black. And, to add to the creepy ambiance, I'm driving down a deserted, dark road in the middle of nowhere the day before Halloween. This moment is pretty much a reenactment of the opening of every Halloween movie I've ever seen...

Even as I have that thought, a deer darts out right in front of me, bounding out of the thick forest of pine trees to the left, long legs flexing as she hurtles across the pavement, scrambling with her dainty hooves for purchase on the road, skidding on it since she's running so quickly. She is _right_ in front of the nose of my car, and there's probably not enough time to avoid hitting her, but all I am in that moment is one giant reflex.

I gasp as I slam on the brakes.

Thankfully, I was already reducing my speed; the speed limit is thirty-five miles-per-hour through Allegany, and I already got a ticket here once—issued by an unhappy park ranger/security guy. And I'll be damned if I'm getting a ticket again! So when I slam on the brakes, the car slows down quickly, and nothing terrible happens. I'm able to stop my car just shy of the doe, who actually came to a halt in front of my fender, staring at it with wide, unblinking eyes. Apparently, deer aren't the smartest of creatures.

I pant, gripping the steering wheel tightly as we stare at each other, the doe and me. Her wide, wet eyes are framed by long, delicate lashes, and I'm so close that I can see her small nose wrinkling in distress as she huffs a breath that curls out into the air like smoke. Breathless, I watch this gorgeous creature—this gorgeous creature that I almost just turned into roadkill. I swallow, trying to quell my adrenaline, and then the spell is broken: the doe darts off again, taking a single, powerful bound to clear the rest of the road and disappear on the other side, into the thicket. And, that fast, in a single heartbeat, she's gone.

"Abby? Abby, honey, are you okay?" comes my mom's panicked voice from my headset. Crap—with all the adrenaline pouring through me, I completely forgot I was on the phone. My mom says, all in a rush, "I just heard the brakes screeching!"

"I'm okay, Mom," I tell her, forcing out a laugh that sounds fake even to me, the one faking it. I gulp down air and take another deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then I adjust the earpiece. "Sorry. A deer just jumped out in front of me, but I didn't hit her. I just had to brake hard. I'm fine, car's fine, deer's fine. It's all good." I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white in the dark.

"See, that's one of the million reasons you shouldn't be doing this," my mom frets. "If you wanted to play at Annie Oakley, you could come camp in our backyard! Heaven knows it's a jungle out there," she tells me with a long sigh.

I'm laughing again, and my body begins to relax as I put my foot on the gas, crawling into the park now. I'm going so slow that my speedometer doesn't even flick over the number "5" for a few minutes.

"I'd hardly call your tiny backyard in south Buffalo a jungle, Mom," I tease her gently, smiling as I grip the steering wheel a little less tightly now. I roll my shoulders back. "Just remind Dad that I'll be visiting you guys after the camping trip. I'll be breaking camp on Monday morning, so I'll drive into town and expect Tim Hortons coffee and donuts pretty much right away."

My mom is chuckling, but I can still hear the worry in her voice. "Just don't eat a half dozen Boston creams in one sitting like last time, okay?"

"I'm offended," I smile. "You know Jack helped me." Jack is my parents' very, very elderly Boston Terrier, and by "helping me," I mean that he might have licked a drop of custard off of my finger, if I remember correctly.

"Abby..." my mother starts, and I know she's about to launch into one last-ditch effort to keep me from camping alone this weekend.

So I beat her to it.

"Look, I just really needed to get away," I tell her, my voice calm, soothing, the exact voice I use when my dog, Peanut, sits quaking under the bed during thunderstorms and I have to coax her out. "I'll be safe," I say, smiling, reassuring, calm. "I mean, I'm staying in our cabin; it's got two locks! An impenetrable fortress with two locks. And I'm sure there are other people camping, because seasoned campers know that the week before Halloween is less crowded. And there are park rangers all over the place... Besides all of that, the park just isn't full of serial killers, no matter what you say, Mom," I tell her with a sigh. "Deer, yeah. There are a lot of deer," I concede with a chuckle. "But I don't think murder is on their agenda. Unless they try to run into my car again."

"Well," says my mother, sounding very unsure. "I know you're going to do what you want to do, Abby," she finally tells me, with a very long-suffering sigh. "And I know you can take care of yourself."

"I didn't take all those karate lessons when I was a kid for nothing!"

"Just promise me you'll be careful?" she says, with another very long sigh.

"I promise," I tell her soothingly. And then, very quickly, I belt out, "I love you and Dad. I'll see you very soon! And I'm going up the mountain, so I'm losing the signal. I'll have to let you go! I love you! Bye!" I tell her all in a single breath, and before she can tack on another, "I'm not sure this trip is a good idea" speech to the three _dozen_ that she already gave me on the car ride here, I cut the connection, tossing my Bluetooth onto the seat next to me.

I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders back again; I'm stiff from the long drive—and from being so tense throughout the conversation. I mean, I knew my mother wouldn't be happy that I was taking a camping trip alone. Camping alone is Not Done so late in the season, according to her. But I also know that I'm perfectly safe here. After all, I've been coming to Allegany State Park since I was a baby—literally. My parents brought me to the cabin for the very first time when I was thirty days old. And, completely TMI, but when my mother was drunk at my uncle's New Year's party once, she told me that I was conceived in that very same cabin, so you could kind of say that camping is in my blood. I've been here so many times that I know this place like the back of my hand. Yeah, there are bears here, but they're small black bears who crave wild-grown blackberries and campers' trash, rather than, well, the campers themselves. There is nothing dangerous in this entire park except for bad compasses and a bad sense of direction: a few folks died here while hiking, after getting lost.

But other than that...I'm perfectly safe.

And, hell, I've gone two years without taking time off from work. I've won so many attendance gold stars at this point (I work in telemarketing, and they love handing out gold stars to the drudges who manage to show up every day), I could fill a jar with them.

I _need_ this vacation.

I could never tell you exactly why I put off taking a vacation during the nice, summer months, the months when the cabin was completely empty, when I could have gone swimming in the pond, eaten ice cream and popsicles from the General Store and sunned myself on the little spit of beach. Maybe it's because I wanted time alone, time to myself, not to have to fight the crowd for the best spots. Autumn's my favorite season, so that factored into it, too. Autumn in Allegany State Park, straddling the border of New York and Pennsylvania, is breathtaking. The trees are a riot of colors, a treasure trove of autumn-hued gems, and even though it's dark out, I can smell autumn in the air. I can't wait to wake up tomorrow morning and look out my window at the beauty that surrounds me.

I guess I feel silly saying that I felt called to come to the park this week, but that's the absolute truth of it. I had a dream one night, a dream of me walking through the woods in the twilight hours, beneath the amber-colored trees, feeling perfectly happy and content. I woke up, and I still felt that happiness and contentment, at least for a little while. It lasted in me like a memory, even though I hadn't experienced it. And that sealed the deal. I _wanted_ that. And now, here I am.

Much to my mother's dismay.

I roll through the Quaker section of the park. Allegany State Park is divided into two distinct areas, with a mountain in between. One side is called Red House; that's where the "rich" people go to camp. Well, they aren't necessarily rich, but that's what it seemed like to me when I was a kid. And then there's the Quaker side, what my mother calls "the plebeian side" of the mountain.

I turn my car into the small gravel parking lot for the rental station.

Our family has owned a cabin on the Quaker side for at least two generations. The cabin was here before they offered camping at the park, so we were sort of grandfathered into the whole park system. I don't need a key to get into our family cabin—I have one—but it's just common courtesy to tell the rangers that I'm here and give them some sort of time frame for how long I think I'll stay.

I turn off the engine and my headlights. Immediately, I'm plunged into thick darkness. Gingerly, I open the car door, and as the cold air gusts into my car, I'm surprised—as I always am at this time of year—that there's not a single sound in the forest surrounding me. All of the bugs are dead or sleeping for the winter, and the smaller forest animals have gone to bed for the night. The birds have either flown away or are nestled asleep somewhere. So, right now, the woods are still, so quiet that I can hear myself breathing. I can even hear my heartbeat in my chest, the steady _thump-thump, thump-thump_ speeding up a little, just because the woods, at night, would make anyone's heart beat a little faster.

It's a disconcerting feeling—especially for someone used to the hustle and bustle of Rochester—as I shut my car door, and the sound of it echoes away into the darkness, muffled into silence by the close, brooding pine trees. I burrow my hands deep into my jacket pockets, turning up my fleece's collar to stave off the chill that's rolling in off the pond, and I trot up the three steps to the station's front door. I'm glad to see that there's a small light on inside, the tiny warmth of it spilling out onto the wooden boards of the porch. But when I peer through the window into the station itself, my heart sinks.

I was kind of hoping that Bob or Sherri or Alex would be on duty tonight. I've been camping here for so long that I know every ranger, and most of them I love.

Except for one.

The one in the station right now.

Barbara.

Barbara has been a park ranger here at Allegany since I was a kid, and she knows my family and me pretty well. And because of that, and because I love the park so much, I kind of feel like it's my duty to say all the usual, nice things about her, like Barbara is perfectly...well, _nice,_ and she's always treated my family well, going so far as to track down my childhood dog, Socks, when she slipped out of the cabin one night when I was thirteen. I mean, that's _nice._ She didn't have to do that for us.

But even when I was little, there was something about her that made me uneasy. Maybe it's the way that she would look at us kids disapprovingly, like we were always up to something bad, even though we weren't. Maybe it's how she dragged my dog back when she found him, his tail between his legs as she gripped his collar so hard that there were brush-burn marks on his neck when she handed him over to us.

Barbara is also majorly into hunting, and as a vegetarian, hunting isn't really my favorite topic. But it was more than opposing views on things, more than the way my dog collapsed into my arms when Barbara returned him, as if she'd terrified him completely.

It's just that, sometimes, when Barbara looks at me—okay, I know this sounds weird. But it almost looks like she's staring at something, well...delicious. Like she's hungry, and I might be the sort of snack that's perfectly acceptable to devour before dinner.

Granted, these are the stories that kids tell each other when they're staying up past their bedtime, using flashlights like props, beams aimed under their chins while they mutter in spooky voices about the scariest scenarios they can come up with. And I did exactly that with my cousins when we'd camp here each summer. We would always try to outdo ourselves, coming up with the creepiest tales we could imagine...

And when we'd bring up Barbara (because of _course_ we'd bring up Barbara), we'd talk in hushed tones about how she ate kids and stray pets. That last part was added onto the story after she brought our dog back. We said that she was part beast, because her teeth were a little sharper than everyone else's. Which wasn't actually true, but that's how it felt to me. There was something almost animal-like about Barbara.

Something that felt...amiss.

Even now, thinking about those childhood stories we'd tell each other...it makes me shiver as I glance in the window, as I see Barbara sitting at the ranger's desk, typing something up on the monolithic desktop computer, her eyes narrowed as she frowns at the screen.

There's something off-putting about her. Something that makes my mouth go dry.

Okay, okay, I know that's crazy. And I'm blaming all of my mother's talk about serial killers and cannibals for my reticence to raise my hand and knock on that ranger station door. Barbara is just... _intense_ is all. And she doesn't have that many social skills, which is why her intensity always comes off as something uncomfortable. It's _not her fault_. But as I do fist my hand, poised to knock, I have to take a deep breath to still my thundering heartbeat.

 _C'mon, Abby,_ I cajole myself. _What's the worst she's going to do? She's not going to_ bite _you._

But, still, it takes me a moment to summon the courage to knock on that door.

The _knock, knock, knock_ of my knuckles against the heavy wood sounds extra loud in the stillness of the night. I take a step back from the door, and I can hear someone with heavy boots moving across the floor inside. _Thump, thump._ I turn up my fleece collar even more, shivering in the cold air, and then I take a deep breath as the door opens in front of me, the soft light inside the ranger station spilling out onto the front porch.

"Abby Reynolds," says Barbara, her voice low, her tone disapproving. She has the advantage of the light being behind her, and of my eyes being adjusted to absolute blackness. So when she speaks to me, I really can't see her face; it's shrouded in darkness. But it doesn't take sight to understand that she's pretty unhappy to see me; her tone clearly conveyed that. She practically spat out my name.

"Well. Come on in," she grunts; then she's standing aside, and I walk into the station, the coolness of the air outside cut off as she shuts the door behind me and the warmth of the room washes over me.

Barbara stands about a head taller than me, even though I'm pretty tall myself. She has the kind of muscular build that suggests she works out all the time, and that's impressive. Honestly, it seems as if she hasn't changed much at all since the last time I've seen her.

It's kind of alarming, actually. Like she just doesn't age.

And when my gaze finally adjusts to the light and I can actually look her in the eyes, I'm doubly alarmed to see something that she never had before: a bright white scar passing over her right eye and onto her cheek. It's a thin, narrow slash that looks like it was probably pretty painful to endure.

Now she's staring at me with anger, glaring. Her lips move up over her teeth in a _snarl_ as she gazes at me in bare disgust.

I take a step back, feeling chilled, wary. Yeah, I'd say it's pretty obvious that she's more unhappy to see me than ever before.

I wish I knew what I'd done to make her hate me so much. The worst thing I ever did to her was be frightened of her. And I used that fright to fuel some pretty outrageous stories after dark, flashlight beam pointed at my chin.

"Hi, Barbara. How are you?" I ask her, clearing my throat as I force a small smile onto my face. I hold out my hand to her for a shake.

But she doesn't take it. Instead, she deliberately glances down at it, her lips curling up even further over her teeth. She actually laughs, then, a short, sharp bark of a laugh as she shakes her head, turning away from me.

Barbara frowns as she sits down behind the desk, steepling her fingers over her middle. Then she sighs and pushes her chair back, glancing back up at my face again. Her eyes are narrowed and flashing with something I can't quite place. Agitation? Annoyance?

She wastes no time, just gets right down to business. "I'm displeased that you chose to camp here this week, Ms. Reynolds," she says, her voice strained, forced. "I really wish there was something I could do to talk you out of staying tonight." When she says this, her head is tilted to the side, her eyes slitted as she pins me to the spot with her hard gaze. Her brunette hair—though she's at least sixty, there's not a single streak of gray in it—is pulled back severely from her face, highlighting the scar. And her scowl.

I watch Barbara in shock, opening and shutting my mouth.

Before I can even think, I'm stating the obvious. "I...I'm sorry. I don't know why my staying at the cabin would bother you," I tell her quickly, spreading my hands as I stare at her, perplexed. "My family's cabin doesn't really even have anything to do with the park," I tell her, my voice shaking, nervous. I could count on my mother being worried about me, but I wasn't expecting there to be resistance from someone who has nothing to do with me or my life. Someone I'm checking in with, out of courtesy. There's no rule that says we have to stop at the ranger station before we go to our cabin; we've just always done it.

"There's a dangerous animal on the loose here," she says, the words coming out low, slow.

Well. That was unexpected. I blink.

"Dangerous animal? A bear? But you guys have bears all the time," I tell her.

She's shaking her head slowly, still keeping me within her angry sights. "No—not a bear," she growls, her eyes glinting as she stares up at me from her chair. She licks her lips, takes a deep breath. "There have been reports," she says, "that what we're dealing with..." She draws out a long breath, still glowering.

"What?" I mutter.

She holds my gaze. "A wolf," she says simply.

And I laugh—until I realize that she's not laughing, too. And, anyway, she doesn't strike me as the type of person who cracks jokes.

 _Ever._

"How is that possible?" is what I finally settle on replying. When I was a little girl, I thought I heard wolves howling out in the woods, but it was never really wolves. Coyotes occasionally, yeah, but wolves haven't been wild here since well over a hundred years ago.

She shrugs, but she's still staring at me shrewdly, her eyes narrowed. "So, it's not safe for you to—"

"Reports?" I ask her, folding my arms in front of me. "What kind of reports? Have there been sightings of this wolf? Where could the wolf possibly have come from? A zoo? Wouldn't I have heard about it?"

She says nothing for a long moment, only stares at me, her eyes boring into my skull in an invasive fashion. Finally, she says, "I urge you _—strongly—_ not to camp here at the park this weekend, Ms. Reynolds." Her voice is voice sharp, clipped, succinct. "But if you _want_ to camp against my wishes, there is... _nothing_ I can do to stop you."

Coupled with her sarcastic tone, her darkened eyes, and her scowling face, her words take on an ominous tone _._

I stare, holding my tongue. I'm not intimidated by her, and I'm certainly not intimidated by an unlikely story about a wolf terrorizing Allegany State Park. That's like saying there's a sea-monster swimming in the lake. Both of those things are impossible.

I know Barbara has never liked me, and she doesn't want me staying in the park. But my camping plans have nothing to do with her.

It's been a long drive to get here, and I was already exhausted when I got off of work this afternoon. So what comes out next isn't something I'm exactly proud of.

"You've never liked me, Barbara," I say. Somewhere, far away, my sensible side is horrified at how flushed my cheeks are, at the impassioned words that are pouring out of my mouth. But I can't stop them. "But I don't honestly care. I'm camping here this week, and if you think your half-assed story frightens me, you have another think coming."

And then, internally mortified— _oh-God-I-can't-believe-I-just-did-that_ —I turn around and aim for the door.

"Ms. Reynolds," says Barbara, her voice low, her tone thick with warning.

I can't help it. I stop, and I turn on my heel to look back at her.

My heartbeat leaps up into my throat, because when I look back...

She's staring at me. Her eyes are wide and wild-looking, and the way that she's smiling... Well, she's showing more teeth than people usually show when they smile.

It's...genuinely frightening.

"Watch out for wolves," she tells me, still smiling that scary, much-too-big smile. I open the door, and then I'm stumbling down the porch steps as her laughter, her genuine _laughter_ , chases after me, out into the night.

I fall into my car, shove the key in the ignition, and then I'm driving away from the ranger station and the creepy woman that I told stories about when I was a kid, trying to make them scarier than the stories my cousins told, all about how Barbara would eat you up if you got on her bad side.

A feat I successfully accomplished tonight.

And the way she looked at me?

Yeah. Maybe those childhood stories had a hint of truth to them, after all.

I take a deep breath, trying to quell my too-fast heartbeat as I move down the road, between the thick layers of trees. She's not a friendly person; she just wanted to spook me. Part of me wonders if she'd go so far as to pull a prank or two out in the woods, try to get me to leave, but there's no _actual_ reason for her to dislike me. I know all of her coworkers, her supervisor... If she did something to get me to leave the cabin, I would report her.

But what the hell was that—that smile, that laugh? What just happened?

I shake my head, rub my face with my right hand, keeping the left hand tight on the wheel.

That was just...weird.

The minute I get to the cabin, I park the car and stare up at the usually comforting building. Our cabin looks like a lot of the other cabins in Allegany, with its small front porch, sharp-looking roof and warm, wooden shingles. And it usually _is_ very comforting to see, filling me with a sense of ease, of rightness with the world.

But when I get out of the car right now, closing the door behind me, I'm plunged into darkness again. Honestly, I used to love the dark here when I was a kid. When it was summer, I'd catch fireflies, and when it was fall, we'd gather around campfires and tell each other spooky stories and eat s'mores until we got sick. I have a lot of good memories about nighttime here at Allegany Stare Park, but right now, I don't want to be in the dark, and I don't want to be faced with opening up the cabin, fumbling around with next-to-no visibility as I light my lantern, as I try to make the place feel safe.

So I grab my overnight bag from the backseat, and I find my flashlight in the glove compartment, and I set off down the worn, familiar path between the pines, leading to the bathroom.

One of the best things about my family's cabin has always been its closeness to one of the camp bathroom buildings. There are only a handful of bathrooms scattered through the Quaker section of Allegany State Park, and we happen to be close to the best one. Most of the camp bathrooms have showers on one side of the concrete block building, and toilets and sinks on the other, and this bathroom is no exception. But this building is longer, has more showers and toilet stalls, which means it has more lighting and also means, in summer, that if you get up early enough and sprint, you won't have to wait in line for a shower. And you _might_ be lucky enough to get some hot water out of the deal, too.

So I follow the path, my flashlight on, beam down so that I don't startle any of the small wildlife or critters who might be out on such a cold night (though I doubt there are any; it's just habit). I have my bag slung over my shoulder, my left hand tucked deeply into my fleece pocket, as I mull over Barbara's ridiculous behavior and my own reaction to her. I'm embarrassed by how I responded, but I'm also upset by how _she_ responded. And how very, very creepy she'd become within a manner of seconds.

Honestly, I hate to keep using the word "creepy." I usually only use that word for horror movies and poorly lit basements and horror movies _set_ in poorly lit basements. But Barbara was the personification of all those things tonight.

So much for a relaxing start to the weekend!

But by the time I reach the bathroom building, I've convinced myself that I must have said or done something when I was a little kid to make her hate me, which means that, at least, she wasn't doing all of this stuff unprovoked. And, for some reason, that makes me feel better. I mean, I wasn't a _bad_ kid, but I was by no saint, either. I got into trouble just as fast as—or perhaps a little faster than—my boy cousins when we went camping every year. I was a tomboy, and I often led the adventures into the mountains, my five cousins following behind me like my band of merry men. I was their sunburned, five-year-old girl version of Robin Hood.

Yes. When I was in the middle of one of my Robin Hood plays, I must have done something that rubbed Barbara in a very wrong way.

There. Now that I've convinced myself (not really) of that fact, I can stop worrying about it.

And I sort of do stop worrying. I open the heavy metal door of the bathroom building and am immediately comforted by the bright fluorescent glow of the lights overhead. I close the door behind me, and for a long moment, I stand with my back to the door, my hand hovering over the lock. I consider locking the door behind me.

I grimace for a long moment, debating. If I lock the door, that would mean that I could take a shower in absolute peace, knowing that not a single soul would disturb me. But at the same time, I know that there _are_ other campers at the park tonight (I saw a van down in one of the cabin rings)—and what if some poor drunk teenage girl needs to take a shower _really_ badly? I can't deny anyone that. So, even though it's against my better judgment, I obey the wordless camping rules that I was raised on. Never deny a fellow camper a bathroom. It's just good karma.

I set my pack on the bench along the wall opposite the showers and rummage around in it for my bottles of shampoo, body wash and shaving cream, and my little painfully pink disposable razor. I'm purposefully thinking of a bunch of things _other_ than Barbara right now, like wondering if I should go on another date with Stacey.

Yeah, Stacey. I'll think about Stacey.

I gather the bottles in my arms and deposit them in one of the empty shower stalls, as I ponder my not-girlfriend. Stacey is really nice; we went on a handful of dates this month, while also going on dates with other people. She's very pretty, with short red hair and big green eyes and this really cute nose. I liked her on sight. But Stacey just got out of a long-term relationship with a woman she was engaged to...and she said on the very first date that we should date other people while we also date each other. She made it painfully clear that we wouldn't be exclusive.

I turn on the hot water and hold my hand under the stream; it's shockingly cold, so I wait. I wait, and I wait, and finally, the hot water reaches me—and it's scalding. One moment, frozen water is pummeling the palm of my hand, and the next, it's water hot enough to boil a lobster. I wince and dial back the ancient water knobs a little; then I take a step back from the shower and unzip my fleece jacket.

Even though the steam from the shower is pouring into the room, I'm still shivering when I tug the jacket off over my shoulders, folding it into a pile on the bench. I'm just wearing a tank top beneath, and that comes off over my head in a second. I wad it up and toss it beside my fleece, running my hands through my hair as I take my ponytail holder out and toss it into my bag. I shake out my hair and groan a little as I flex backward, still stupidly sore from the drive here.

Yeah. Maybe I shouldn't think about Stacey. I don't know if that's a dead end, or if it's something that could possibly evolve into a relationship... It's just too uncertain. And I'm kind of sick of the uncertainties of life.

I peel my jeans over my legs and take them off, along with my panties. Then I remove my socks, too, after toeing off my hiking boots. I stand there naked for a moment, rubbing my shoulders and playing with the water's heat, fiddling with the knobs until it's the perfect temperature—and then I step under that blast of water.

I gasp, letting the heat sluice over me, chasing away all of the cold in an instant as I shiver in delight. I rub my hands over my eyes, my long, blonde hair running with water down my back, and for the first time all day, as I tilt my head back, letting the water rush over me, I exhale, relaxing.

I draw in long, slow breaths as the water pours over me, letting every bit of the tension in my shoulders pour out, too, as they relax, ease down. I lift up my arms, running my fingers through my hair, working out the tangles.

I'm so relaxed, in fact, with the water rushing around me so fast and hard, hammering my back and my head, that I almost don't hear the sound over the roar of the water...

But I do hear it.

My eyes go wide, and I gasp, grabbing the water knobs for a moment, gasping out water that I got in my nose as I try to hold my breath, try to listen.

And there it is again.

The first time, the sound that rose over the shower was this: the unmistakable creaking of the metal door opening.

And now it's the same creak, but in reverse. The door is shutting.

The door to the outside opened and shut.

Every hair on my body is at attention, and I'm covered in goosebumps as I grip the faucet knobs with knuckles so tight, they're white. I blink back the water running into my eyes, and I try to quell my panicked heartbeat. It's not unusual for someone else to come into the showers, obviously; there are other campers here this weekend.

But it's late. And that run-in with Barbara was so damn weird. I'm still on edge. I kept the bathroom door unlocked in case anyone else wanted to use it, but I honestly didn't think anyone _would_ use it. I know that's not logical, but hearing the door open and shut unnerved me.

Normally, you acknowledge a fellow camper in the bathrooms only if you're both fully clothed, and even then, it's just a nod. You don't ever call out from your shower stall or yell "Hello!" at them.

And you certainly don't peer out at them from around the shower curtain like a weird person. But that's exactly what I'm thinking about doing right now.

I take a step forward on the slick concrete floor, my hand reaching out toward the drab, gray shower curtain as my heart beats uncontrollably inside of me.

I just... I just have to see who's out there. It'll just be a tiny peek. She probably won't even _see_ me peeking.

I just have to know I'm safe. Barbara _did_ get to me, as much as it pains me to admit it.

So I pull the shower curtain back a little, and I peer out of the tiny gap, toward the door.

The moment seems to crystallize around me. The water seems to slow; the rush spilling down all around me is muffled white noise as I listen to my ragged breathing. I stare from behind the shower curtain, the curtain that is now trembling because my hand is trembling. What I'm seeing out there, in the shower hall, makes my knees actually buckle, weakening. But I don't let them give out. I stiffen my legs, gaping.

What I'm seeing is... Well, I can't believe it's possible.

There's a wolf standing in the middle of the bathroom floor.

And it's bleeding.

The wolf is about as tall as my hips, big and lanky, with very dark brown fur that's mottled in places with black. It's wheezing, its nose wrinkling as it pants, bracing itself into a standing position on the concrete, its massive paws spread around it, quivering, trying to hold it up. Its claws are pressing, scraping against the concrete floor, and its right shoulder is actually dripping blood. There's a small pool of the red stuff gathered around its front right paw on the ground, spilling outward over the dirty concrete.

Gasping for air, I let the shower curtain fall back into place, and I stand there, under the powerful stream of water, and I don't know what to do. I _don't know what to do._

There's a wolf in the bathroom.

A _wolf._

I'm shaking, I realize, as I stare down at my wet hands, water dripping from the ends of my fingers as the shower goes on, as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening at all. I curl my hands tightly into fists, trying to think of something to do, anything I can do to get out of this. Adrenaline courses through me.

For a second, I wonder if I really saw what I _think_ I saw. No, there is no way I could have. Right? I take a deep breath, letting it blow out my nose. My mind is desperately grappling, trying to substitute something else over the image of the wolf. Something else that actually makes _sense._

It was a very long drive. I'm hyped up on caffeine. I'm really hungry. Don't people see things when they're starving? Yeah. That must be it. It _must_ be.

But still, I take another step forward , and I'm curling my fingers around the shower curtain again, bracing myself. I think about what Barbara said, about there being a wolf in the park. But a _wolf_ in a state park in _New York_? It sounded crazy, unbelievable, when she told me that, with her narrowed gaze and that ridiculous smirk.

But I have to believe my own eyes, don't I?

I steel my nerves. I take a deep breath, and I hold it, and I pull the curtain back. I need to see if the wolf is real. If I made it up.

I must have made it up.

Because there isn't a wolf in the middle of the bathroom.

I stare at what _is_ lying on the concrete floor, though, and everything seems to speed up around me again, the air pouring out of me as I gasp, as I fumble with the knobs on the shower, my entire body quaking as I manage to turn the water off and race out of the shower, naked and not even caring.

Because in the center of the bathroom floor, curled up into a tight ball, there is no wolf but a woman, just as naked as me.

And she's bleeding. Badly.

I almost slip on the concrete floor when I approach her, but I manage to catch myself from a complete fall, racing to a crouch beside the prone figure. I stare down, unsure of what to do as she curls up into a tighter ball, gasping herself.

She has her face pressed into her knees, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her body curled inward, but I can still make out some significant details. Like the fact that her right shoulder, the one that's facing the ceiling of the bathroom, since she's lying on her side, has an enormous gash tearing it open, a gash so deep that... God. Is that a bit of _bone_ I see, peeking through the layers of skin and muscle? Blood leaks down her side, coursing over her arm, over her chest, pooling onto the floor beneath her.

Her long, wavy, brunette hair is obscuring her face, but I can tell—obviously—that she's a woman. I can see the curve of her breasts past her arms, can see the curve of her hips. But everything is moving too fast for me to compute what I'm seeing. I reach out to her, my hand pausing above her bare arm, not yet touching her, because I stop myself just in time. She's really hurt; I don't want to hurt her even further. I can't possibly tell what other injuries she's sustained.

"Are you okay?" I ask her, breathless, realizing after I say it that it's _the stupidest question in the universe_. She's naked, bleeding, in the middle of a campground bathroom. She is very much _not_ okay. Obviously.

But when she lifts her head to glance up at me from her position on the floor, when her hair falls away from her face, I'm made breathless again, as if all the air has left my body.

I stare at her, speechless.

Her eyes are brown; they _have_ tobe brown. That's the only thing that makes any sort of sense to me. I've seen a million women with brown eyes, even brown eyes framed with such lovely lashes as she has. Brown eyes make _sense._

But the truth of the matter is that her eyes _aren't_ brown.

They're...golden. Like, pure gold, fine gold, the type of gold that you find in a jewelry store or in a museum, something precious. Her eyes are that bright, burnished gold, with flecks of amber sprinkled throughout to create a sense that an all-consuming fire is burning in her eyes.

And she's aiming that fire directly into me, holding my gaze with such bright, fevered, fiery eyes that I'm rendered breathless.

"You," she growls, and her voice is low, husky, as deep as her eyes, as she stares up at me from the ground. "...shouldn't," she manages, coughing a little as she curls further inward. "Be here," she finishes, closing her eyes in pain as she presses her face again to her knees, her body clenched up into such a tight ball that I can see the muscles on her arms flexing as she draws her legs closer to her chest.

"Can I... Can I help you?" I ask her in a hushed voice, my heart pounding in my throat as I stare down at the blood spilling out of the wound on her shoulder now that the muscle is tighter. "You need help," I finally manage to tell her.

Again, she opens her eyes. Again, she lifts up her face from the floor, turning that burning, golden gaze onto me. Her full lips are curled up into a grimace, and her eyes are narrowed as she winces, as she shakes her head tiredly.

"Please go," she tells me softly, her voice low, a growl. "You could get hurt," she says, and then she hisses in pain, reaching up, curling her fingers over the wound as she moans. "Please," she growls again, and she pushes herself to a sitting position, her arms crossed in front of her, her one hand gripping the edges of her wound so that they press together as she gasps out loud from the pain. She stops, then, her mouth open as she practically pants, staring at me with pain-filled eyes, her gaze burning like a fever.

"You aren't safe here," she murmurs to me, enunciating each word with a growling precision as she leans forward a little, as she holds my gaze with her unnatural golden eyes. And then, across the space between us, she takes her hand, the hand not covered in blood, the hand not closed tightly over the wound in her shoulder—and she reaches out to me.

I'm so shocked that I remain perfectly still. Her fingers are feather-light on my cheek as she brushes aside one of the strands of wet hair that's dripping on my face, my shoulders. She smooths the pads of her fingers delicately over my skin—even as her hand shakes, even as she gasps from the pain of her wound.

She presses her hot skin against mine, and she keeps her hand there, her palm gently cupping my face. She holds my gaze unwaveringly.

"I will not," she growls, her eyes sparking, "see another person get hurt by her," she tells me, gasping now as she forces out the words, her voice guttural. "You. Must. Leave."

"Someone... Someone hurt you?" I ask her, not understanding. I'm feeling a million things at the moment, a million emotions vying for supremacy inside of me, but here's the one that came up instantly, burning through me just as brightly as fire:

Longing. Longing so intense, so immediate, so fierce, that I'm made breathless by it, as breathless as if I've fallen onto my back, as if every last bit of air has been knocked out of me.

Something awakened when the woman reached out to touch me. There's something in her touch that ignites me, burning deep inside of me. Something that opens, unfurling, like the woman uncurling from the tight ball of pain on the concrete floor. Yes. Unfurling is the best word for what happened inside of my heart just now.

But...but...I would be the _first_ one to point out that _now is not the time for this sort of thing._ Really, Abby? You're going to go all doe-eyed for a woman who's lying in front of you, probably _bleeding to death_? But I can't _help_ the immediate reaction, this visceral reaction, that I have to her reaching out to touch my face, the deep reaction that I have to her bright, golden eyes pinning me in place, the reaction that I have to the electric heat of her skin against mine.

I have never, in all of my life, felt that sort of connection to anyone. It's... Well, it's genuinely _unnerving_ , how quickly those feelings rear up inside of me, how quickly I am attracted to this woman, this woman who is bleeding in front of me. So I do my absolute best to push all of that desire down, shoving it away as the woman in front of me gasps again, curling her fingers tighter over the wound in her shoulder. She crumples forward, and her fingers leave my face, because she can no longer hold herself up by the strength of her core. She curves forward elegantly, in so much obvious pain that the sight guts me.

She's bleeding to death in front of me, and I don't even know her name.

"I need to get you some help," I whisper, standing, shaking like I've just seen a ghost. But I haven't seen a ghost; I saw a wolf (that obviously wasn't there. Obviously. Yeah, I'm going to go with that), and then I saw a woman wounded, bleeding, needing my help.

So I stand, and I rush over to the bench, throwing on my old jeans and fleece jacket over my bare shoulders, zipping it up with trembling hands. They're shaking so hard, in fact, that it takes me a few tries to grasp the zipper and pull it up and over my abdomen and breasts. I grab my phone out of my purse, slide the screen to unlock it and dial in the number that you hope you never have to call: 911.

I hold the phone up to my ear, but because Allegany State Park is absolutely notorious for bad signals, the phone call doesn't go through. There's no phone reception here in the bathroom. I stare down at my cell, dumbstruck. Why wouldn't it work now? When I seriously need it most? I know that cell service is completely reliable in the park, but this woman is _going to die._

Don't ask me how I know that. It's not like I've ever seen a dying woman before. But there's something about the way that she looked at me, with those feverish, bright eyes, that convinced me that there was something very, very wrong. I don't know what she's talking about: she said, "I will not see another person get hurt by her." I have no idea what that could possibly mean, but my mind is already jumping to all sorts of terrible conclusions. Maybe this woman was kidnapped, and she just escaped from her kidnapper? Why is she naked? None of this makes any _sense._

I groan in frustration as I toss my phone back into my purse, turning to look back at the woman, who is now on all fours, folding forward as she moans with pain.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, rummaging around in my pack with shaking hands. I grab out the robe that I was going to wear in the cabin after the shower (yeah, I may be one of the only people who brings a robe on a camping trip, but I wanted to be comfortable on my vacation, dammit!), and I bring it over to her, hovering back, unsure as she glances up at me.

"Um...here..." I tell her, offering it to her. She glances up at me with those same burning, bright eyes, and she nods once, grunting as she pushes off the floor with her hands, pushing herself up to a kneeling position on the concrete, her shoulders bowing forward, her head lowered as she grits her teeth, staring down and taking short, panting breaths.

"Thank you," she finally growls to me, reaching up and taking the robe from my hands. The robe falls to the floor as she grips it tightly with white-knuckled fingers, her fist sinking to the ground as she presses against it, letting out a low grunt of pain. Then she rises a little, gingerly slinging the robe over her good shoulder, and then gasping out again as she draws the fabric up and over her wound. She cries out as she slides her right arm into the arm hole, and then she draws the robe closed in front of her with shaking hands, tying the terrycloth sash with stiff fingers.

She places one hand on the ground again, palm flat against the cool concrete, and she lifts her right knee. For a long moment, she crouches in this position, like she's down on one knee before me, her head bent, her shining brown hair falling over her shoulders, the curve of her neck visible beneath the curls... I gulp down air and try not to stare at her, but then she leans forward, gasping, and in one slow, stiff motion, she pushes herself up to a standing position.

But she's not ready to stand yet; she's either lost too much blood, or she's hurt far worse than I can see, because as she stands there, wavering, she begins to fold forward.

"Oh, my gosh," I manage, darting toward her as she sags, about to fall back onto the concrete floor in an uncontrolled dive. I grab her, throwing an arm around her waist, drawing my other hand up to grip her left hand. It looks like we're about to start tangoing, really, as she falls against me, pillowing her head on my shoulder.

"I just... I just need a minute," she growls out softly, and her breath is hot on my ear as she closes her eyes, sagging, her long, dark lashes fluttering against her pale cheeks. And I'm left holding her up.

She's taller than me, that much is obvious, even though she can't exactly stand upright right now of her own volition, and she's curvy and muscular, so she's also heavier than me. It's all I can do to hold her in place, but I manage, gripping her around her waist now, holding tightly to her.

I'm highly aware in this moment of so many things at once, and some of these things I shouldn't even be _thinking_ about, but I can't help it. Because I notice, acutely, how her curving breasts are pressing against me through the robe, how the silky curves of her hips grind against mine as she gasps out, how her wound is leaking blood onto my fleece jacket, actually _dripping_ down my shoulder, the blood running over the waterproof fleece fabric to _drip, drip_ down onto the concrete floor.

I grimace, wrapping my arms tighter around her waist as she starts to slip. Okay, _think,_ Abby! First things first. I've got to get her to my car. And from there...I guess to the hospital? I can't call an ambulance, and by the time I do get a signal... I don't know. It might be too late for her.

I've got to get her to the hospital _now._

I do some quick math in my head as I grip her tightly, her long, curving body resting completely against mine. The closest hospital is Olean General. I remember this because of that one time when I was ten, and we were camping here for the summer, and my cousin, Brett, dared me to climb the tallest of the Thunder Rocks in the park, and I unfortunately fell off (it _would_ have been my greatest climb to date!) and broke my wrist. My mother drove me, cursing all the way, to the hospital. But even though Olean is "close" in relative terms, it's still _forty minutes away_. Maybe even more, because of how far into the park we are.

This woman, this stranger, is bleeding out on me. What if she dies before we even _get_ there?

She's hardly conscious, but she makes a guttural sound now, like the sound a wild animal would make when it's in pain. She lifts her head up from my shoulder, her brow furrowed, her eyes bright with torment.

"What are you doing?" she mutters, gazing at me, her mouth open, her lips wet as she pants against me. I swallow a little, take a deep breath.

"Um...my phone isn't working right now," I tell her miserably, "and you're very hurt. I'm sorry. My phone can't call 911, but I can keep trying—but I thought I'd try to drive you to the hospital. You're very hurt," I repeat, muttering the words as she closes her bright golden eyes tightly.

She pushes against me, but it's a weak push. She shakes her head vehemently, her eyes burning even brighter as she opens them, as she pins me to the spot with the power of her gaze. "No," she tells me, the word hushed but forceful. "I can't go to the hospital. I just... I really can't," she says, and she's pushing out the words so fast now, breathless as she gasps in pain. "Just... You've been kind," she says, holding my gaze as she grips my shoulders tightly with her fingers, using them to help her stand up straight. "But I have to go. Someone..." She trails off, shaking her head, as if trying to clear cobwebs from her mind. "Someone is expecting me," she tells me, glancing backward at the door, her hair falling over her good shoulder with a soft _shushing_ sound. Everything sounds too loud in the stillness of the bathroom now, as I hold her, as her fingers curl around my shoulders.

I can hear her breathing. I can practically hear her heart beating.

"You have a serious injury," I tell her then, and she takes a step back from me, no longer touching me but hardly standing up on her own. She can't support herself yet, and she stumbles a little as she takes that first step. She's about to fall to the concrete again, but I'm gasping, leaping forward, gripping her around the waist in a second. She was about to fall to her knees very hard before I caught her, my arms wrapping around her body tightly, like a lover might hold someone.

But she's holding me close, too, as she draws her arms around my shoulders then, gazing into my eyes with her face so close that her nose actually brushes against mine. Her mouth is so very, _very_ close to mine. She gazes at me, her eyes intense and burning, the scent of her rising around me—of forest pine and rich earth and a million fallen leaves... She smells wild, I realize. As wild as the wood.

I realize, then, in this moment, how very close she is...and how easy it would be to kiss her.

For that hot, searing second, I let myself think about that, let myself imagine exactly what that might be like...but then the shame rises in me, instantaneous and painful. Shame that I would even have that thought as this poor woman bleeds against me. She needs my _help_ , and here I am thinking of kissing her, even as the blood leaks out of her shoulder, pouring over my fleece jacket... God, I really need to get my head on straight.

The problem is that everything changes too quickly in me, and in that moment, I really don't even know if I'm coming or going—because that shame I just felt, that red, hot shame that pulsed through me because I dared think about this woman's kiss... Well, that shame rushes out of me in a heartbeat, evaporating like it was never there.

It is, instead, replaced with something vastly different.

Because this woman, this perfect stranger who I didn't know more than a handful of moments ago, leans forward. She erases the distance between us. Her nose brushes past mine, and then she places her feverishly hot, full mouth against my cheek.

My heart thunders through me, and I can feel my blood beating loudly, rushing through every vein of my body as she kisses my skin, her cheek pressed against my own, her mouth kissing me softly, hotly, every bit of attention I have zeroed in on that single inch of skin.

She lingers for a long moment before she leans forward a little more, and her mouth is at my ear. "You have been kind," she repeats, whispering the words, her breath hot against me. I blush brightly. I can feel her lips against my earlobe, and it's so sensual, so soft and smooth, this motion, like we were lovers once, like we could be lovers again... This degree of intimacy is not reserved for someone you've just met.

But she draws me to her, and something is tightening around my heart, squeezing it as she squeezes me gently.

I turn to her because I must turn to her, because I am drawn to her in a way I don't understand.

She sighs, and then she whispers, "But you must let me go. You are not safe here."

And then she squeezes me gently one last time and takes a step back from me.

And I'm so surprised by the fact that she kissed me that I just stand there, my arms loose, in shock...and I let her go.

The woman glances around the bathroom now, her golden eyes shrewd, calculating, as she takes in everything, as she reaches up, pressing her hand against her wounded shoulder again, almost absentmindedly. My robe _was_ bright white, but now the shoulder and the right arm are completely saturated with blood, leaking through the fabric in a bright red color that stands out starkly against the drab gray of the concrete floors and badly-painted mauve of the bathroom walls. She's staring at the wall closest to us now, and her head is tilting softly to the side, her eyes narrowing, her wet mouth parted...

It's almost as if she's...listening for something.

I realize that I'm reaching up to place my hand over my heart as she turns to me then, her eyes still narrowed, still calculating.

"You're alone in here, yes?" she asks me, her voice low, soft, and again, I shiver because I have no idea what this poor woman has been through. I nod, though.

"Yes. I'm alone," I tell her, wrapping my arms around myself. "Just...please..." I begin, because something deep inside of me is aching. She looks so hurt, so vulnerable, and like she's not used to being either one of those things. "Please let me help you?" I ask her, my voice soft, too.

She glances back at me as she grips her shoulder, as she takes a deep breath, her nostrils flaring. Her eyes are softer when they gaze at me, but the fire that seems to burn, never-ending, deep inside of her flares a little as she looks me up and down now. Her gaze is lingering as it travels the full length of my body.

"I'm glad it was you," she finally says, her eyes landing back on my own, her mouth curling up at the corners, just a little. "That you were here," she says, gesturing around us, at the bathroom that she now finds herself in. "That you were kind," she whispers.

And then she takes two very sure steps forward. These steps are enough to bring her right back to me, her breasts pressing against me just like they had a few moments ago when I was holding her up. But I'm not holding her up anymore. I stare at her in shock as she wraps her free hand, the hand not gripping her wound, around my middle, drawing me to her.

"Thank you," she murmurs again, searching my eyes. "Do you mind?" she asks me then, and though her face is still pained, one brow raises, and she gazes down at my lips with a small smirk.

I have no idea what she's even talking about, but I shake my head—no, I don't mind—not realizing what I'm agreeing to.

But then I realize what she was asking. Because the woman leans forward, and she does not lean down to brush her lips against my cheek. No: instead, she captures my mouth with her own.

She's bleeding. I can feel the wetness of her shoulder pressing against mine as she leans down, but everything else, including the fact that she's terribly wounded, seems to disappear as she holds me tightly to her and kisses me with an intensity and fierceness that undoes me.

Her mouth is so hot, just like her skin, hot to the touch but not unpleasantly so, as I tilt my face up and I realize in that surprising moment that I am kissing her back. I'm made breathless by the intoxicating quality of her kiss, of her skin against mine, of her body against mine, every curve of hers fitting against mine seamlessly. She tastes like she smells, of the crisp, cold outdoors, of a sweet pine, of a cold, bright mint that reminds me of winter nights under countless stars. The coolness of the mint and the heat of her mouth combine in this bewitching play of cold and hot that feels utterly delicious against my mouth. She is _such_ a good kisser, I think, as she sucks my lower lip, as she darts her tongue into my mouth expertly. I haven't been kissed like this in...well...a long time.

And I don't want it to end.

But, just as quickly, she's stepping back, that small smile growing a little more as she shakes her head, her face rueful.

"I apologize," she tells me in that low growl, though her sideways smile is telling me she's not sorry in the slightest. "I saw you looking at me, and I made an assumption. I hope... I hope I have not offended you." And she looks sincere when she says this, her brow furrowed, her smile fading.

"Um," I tell her, still speechless, but trying very, very hard to activate the putting-sentences-together part of my brain again. "No, no, you didn't offend me," I tell her quickly, stammering. "I...I liked that." Inwardly, I bang my head against the stupid mauve walls. That sounded like something a twelve-year-old boy would say. Great. Real smooth, Abby.

But this stranger doesn't seem to notice my lack of suaveness. She's staring at me with her intense gaze, pinning me in place. "It's just that, tonight..." she murmurs, searching my eyes. "I could lose everything tonight. Even my life," she says, her voice solemn and quiet as the smile fades from her face. "I needed something soft," she whispers, her gaze trailing down to my lips with a heat that sparks desire through every vein inside of me. "Thank you for that last kindness," she tells me softly, her eyes lingering on my mouth.

But then she turns slowly, with purpose, and she heads toward the door, her legs stiff as she walks proudly, walking away from me.

What?

What the hell does she mean, that she could lose her _life_?

This woman, this perfect stranger, is about to leave the building, about to slip away into that darkness. But she's hurt, and she's bleeding, and she just kissed me.

And I don't even know her name.

"Wait!" I call after her, breathless. Her hand is already on the door; it's cracked open, the cold night air spilling into the bathroom. But she pauses, glancing back at me, her brown hair sweeping over her shoulder as she gazes at me with her warm golden eyes. She stands there, holding that door open, and she tilts her chin up, watching me.

I want to tell her a lot of things right now. I want to reiterate that I want to help her, that she could come to my cabin; I could drive her to the hospital, could try calling 911 again. I want to ask her if she's in trouble, if someone is after her, if there is anything I can do to help. I want to tell her that I will do anything to help her. Because, in that moment, I realize that I will.

But I can't get any of that out, find that I can't even make a single sound come out of my mouth. It doesn't matter, because one foot is being placed in front of the other, and I'm tugged across the room toward her, like there's a bright ribbon between us, and it's pulling tighter, tightening, drawing us together.

Every single thing about this night has been strange, from the deer bounding out in front of me (I've been coming here since childhood and have never had a run-in with a deer), to Barbara practically threatening me, to finding a wolf in the middle of the bathroom floor—but then not really. Instead, I found a naked woman. And she kissed me. A stranger _kissed_ me, and I don't know if it's pathetic to say this, but it's been a _long_ time since another woman I was deeply attracted to kissed me passionately, so recklessly...like she had nothing to lose.

So even though my cheeks are probably bright red, and—more importantly—even though this perfect stranger is still bleeding through the fabric of my robe, and even though she was just about to leave...

I find that I don't want her to.

I cross that space between us, and I put my hands tentatively at the curves of her waist, over the robe's fabric. The woman lets the door shut behind her gently, and the cold air is cut off. She glances down at me, her head a little to the side as she watches me. And I stand up, tilting my head back, breathless.

And I kiss her, too.

Her mouth is smiling against me when we touch, when my mouth slowly, gently, tenuously, covers hers. My mouth opens, and the kiss is suddenly hot, hotter, as the heat from her skin and body begins to overtake how cold I am after stepping out of that shower and being naked on the concrete floor.

Why isn't _she_ cold?

But thoughts like that, normal thoughts, thoughts that make _sense_ , are out of place in this moment, on this very strange night. Because I need to be honest: absolutely _none_ of this makes sense right now, and yet I'm still going with it.

Because I want to.

Because I need to.

She's hot against me, her skin blazing with pure heat against mine, her mouth everything I didn't know I wanted, but wanted so much that to have it now undoes me. I need her, I realize, as I wrap an arm around her neck, as my body stretches against hers, reaching up for something so wonderful as this kiss that is happening between us. I need her.

Wow... This escalated fast, I realize, as I press my body against hers, as I feel the curve of her breasts against me through the robe and my fleece, as I feel my own chest pressing against hers, as I wrap my fingers around her hips, pulling her to me. I wasn't expecting this tonight, but something about the fact that this is so out of the blue, so unexpected and out of the ordinary, pushes all the right buttons inside of me.

But I back up for a moment, lean back, search her eyes, full of need but so confused...

She's injured, and she's injured _terribly_.

I know that she's kissing me back; I know that her eyes are dark with desire... But I can't possibly be doing this. She's _injured._

Still, there's that equal need in her eyes, and as I look at her kissed lips, how swollen they are from my ministrations, how flashing her eyes are with desire, darkening as they stare at me, I flick my gaze to her shoulder, just to see how it is...

And then I freeze, staring at her shoulder.

This...can't possibly be happening.

My breathing starts to speed up again, my heart pounding even harder through me as I reach up, running my fingers under the lapel of the robe, pulling it aside, sliding it over her shoulder...

Yes, my robe is saturated with blood. It's stiff, because the blood on the cloth is already drying, and her skin is slick with the stuff. But when I pull the robe aside, the cloth slides over perfect, unmarred skin.

Where there is not a single trace of a wound.

I glance at her then, my brow furrowed, my mouth open, my breath coming fast. "What..." I whisper, but she stays me before I can take another step, her hand at the small of my back, firm and gentle—but unyielding.

"Don't go," she whispers, her eyes sparking as she licks her lips, as she lets her gaze drift down my face, down my neck, further, her eyes darkening more until they are no longer golden but a rich, deep amber. Her breaths come faster, and I feel the press of her fingers at my back, pulling me closer.

"Please," she murmurs, her head to the side, a small smile turning her mouth up at the corners as she holds my gaze. "I...I have to be somewhere tonight," she tells me softly, voice low, "but...I have some time right now." She blinks slowly, cat-like, her mouth curved in a secretive smile. "If you'll have me."

Wait a second... Is she saying what I think she's saying?

But I can't get over her miraculously healed shoulder.

That just isn't possible.

"What... What in the _world..._ " I whisper to her, staring at her, my breath coming fast, almost panting now as I lean back in her arms, pushing away a little. "You had... I could see a bit of your _bone_. You had this terrible wound..."

With one arm still around my waist, she shimmies her shoulders, and the robe slips off both of them, falling down to the tie still wrapped tightly around her waist. Her shoulders, her arms, her perfect breasts, her abdomen...it's all in front of me, all bare, all exposed, and though the curve of her right shoulder is coated with dried blood, it is very, very easy to see: there's not a bit of unevenness in her skin, not a wound, not a cut. Hell, there's not even a tiny _scratch_ there.

"Yes, I was hurt," she tells me with maddening patience, "but I'm...better," she says succinctly, her eyes sparkling as her smirk deepens. And then she doesn't say anything else. She only leans close to me and kisses me.

Did I imagine that wolf in the middle of the room? I mean, I must have. I don't know how, but I _must_ have, because the wolf wasn't in the room anymore when I looked again, peering out from around that shower curtain... Instead, there was this woman lying in the middle of the floor. This woman, bleeding out of a wound on her shoulder...

A wound she no longer _has_.

I'm incredibly confused, but she's standing here, flesh and blood, and she's absolutely, one hundred percent _real_ as she kisses me as if I'm the last woman on Earth, as if we're all alone on the planet. I _like_ how she's kissing me like there's no tomorrow, like this moment together is all we have. I'm powerfully attracted to her, and the feeling seems to be mutual.

But...what about the blood, the wound?

I don't know what to do. I just... I _don't know what to do_. But as she stands there, her warm hands at my waist, drawing me to her, her breasts pressed against the front of my jacket, the curves of her skin a feast for my senses, it is alarmingly easy for me to relax against her, relax and put my arms up and around her shoulders and kiss her back.

I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm dismayed at how strange things have been, but I've seemingly plowed through all of these facts. We stand together, and she holds me tightly, her fingers now digging into my hips; she's gripping me with such strength. And as she holds me, I feel everything so deeply, every tiny physical sensation, from the way that her mouth curls up at the corners, smiling against me as I kiss her, to the way that her curved belly feels against my own, to the way that her arm muscles flex when I reach up, when I curl my own fingers over her upper arm, delighting in the feel of her hot skin beneath my palm...

I wonder.

I wonder if I imagined the wound, too.

This is all distressing. It's genuinely scary to think that I could imagine something so terrifying as a wolf in the center of a bathroom, and a woman's wound. There's so much blood, I couldn't possibly have imagined it...

So, yes, I want to keep kissing her. But I find that I just can't.

I pull back from her, albeit reluctantly, and the woman stands there, her full mouth wet, swollen. She's beautiful as she stares at me with hooded eyes, eyes that reflect how very much she wants me.

A shiver runs through me—I want her, too—but I take a deep breath.

"What's going on?" I ask her then, my voice soft as I stare into her impossible golden eyes. "Who are you?" I finally manage. "I...I don't even know your name."

For a long moment, she says nothing, only taking long, deep breaths as she looks at me. But then she nods, her gaze softening. "My name is Shannon," she tells me, flexing her fingers at my waist. "And what's yours?"

"Abby," I tell her, swallowing a little. "Abigail Reynolds."

"Well, Abby," she says, taking up my right hand. She brings my hand to her heart and flattens my palm against her bare skin. I shiver a little as I feel the _thump-thump_ of her heartbeat beneath my palm, also shivering at the smooth softness of her breast beneath my hand. Shannon holds my gaze with eyes that are full of softness, yes. But they are also full of need as she breathes out. "Do you trust me?" she whispers then.

What an impossible question. I just met her. She was bleeding, completely naked. I don't know who she is, where she's from, or what's going on. Where did she get that wound from? _Why_ was she naked?

What could possibly be happening here?

But I realize, as I hold my palm over her heart, as I feel that heartbeat beneath my skin, feel that heartbeat deep in my bones, that—as odd as it sounds—I _do_ trust her.

I don't know why. I couldn't tell you why if you asked me. Maybe it's the look she gives me, like she already knows me, has always known me. Maybe it's because I feel like I've always known her, too, but in such a different way. Maybe it's because, from the very first moment I set my eyes on her, it felt like we were, in some odd way, connected, the two of us.

I do trust her.

So I lick my lips; I clear my throat.

And I find myself nodding.

"Yes," I tell her, holding her gaze, feeling my heartbeat intensify as she watches me with those unnerving, beautiful eyes. "I...I trust you."

My hand is still against her heart, and it's pressed harder against it when Shannon steps closer. She bends her head, her neck curving beautifully, her hair falling over her shoulder as she meets me in a kiss.

It's a slow, sensual kiss this time. She takes her time, her mouth open, hot, searing, as she tastes me, dragging her tongue over my lips as she begins to move with more fervor.

My hands are at her waist, and I'm undoing the tie to my own robe that's wrapped tightly around her as I fumble with the sash, trying to get the tight knot, stiffened with her dry blood, undone.

For half a heartbeat, that dry blood, crumbling from the fabric onto my fingers, shoves me right out of the moment, but then the tie comes loose, and Shannon seems to have an idea about how to distract me.

She pulls me, still kissing me, toward the showers.

When we step inside the first one, past the curtain, I fumble over her shoulder and turn on the knobs, and we are instantly awash in hot water that pummels us with a heat so profound I wonder if we're going to get burned by it. But I fumble a little more with the cold water knob, my eyes closed, my other arm wrapped tightly around her neck and shoulders, and then the water is a little less boil-you-alive, though still very hot.

And Shannon presses me up against the back concrete wall.

I gasp, a sound that gets lost in the roar of the water as I tilt my head back, as Shannon kisses my neck, her mouth hot and open against skin that she teases with her tongue and teeth. Her one hand is at my hips, but the other is under my right thigh then, and she's lifting it, drawing it up to her hips so that I wrap my leg around her curve, and I gasp again, panting against her, as her wet fingers draw hot lines along the skin of that thigh.

I curl my fingers in her hair, pulling her back up to my mouth, because I need to kiss her at this moment. Every touch feels so good, but this is all so strange: if she's not right here, right now, if she's not kissing me fiercely, I'm going to go into my head, even though she's setting me on fire.

And I don't want to be in my head. I don't want to think about the million strange things of this night, the million things that don't make sense.

I want to forget about all of them. I want to be right here. Right now.

With her.

Shannon seems to sense this, because her movements, her touches, were starting to get quicker, full of wanting, but she backs off now, back to a slow, sensual seduction as she captures my mouth, as she teases me with her tongue, parting my lips, pressing into my mouth. I gasp against her, my fingers wrapped up in her wet curls as I draw her head down to me, tightening my leg around her hip, straining, pushing so that my center can feel some release, moving against her.

Shannon reaches up, her fingers on the zipper pull of my fleece jacket, and she tugs it down. I wasn't wearing anything underneath, so she pulls the rest of the thing off, over my shoulders and arms, until it settles into a wet puddle on the floor of the shower. She also undoes my fly with a single, practiced hand, and then she's tugging the jeans off, over my hips, and they, too, form a sodden mass at my feet as I kick them away.

She holds my gaze as she presses me against the wall again, as she picks me up, hooking her arms under my thighs, settling my legs around her waist.

And she presses her hips against me hard, grinding them against my center.

"Oh, my God," I whisper, my head rolling back, my eyes closing as I gasp, as that exquisite sensation of her hot, wet skin against mine causes my eyes to roll back in my head, causes my body to arch, of its own accord, against her own. My legs are so widespread because she has me pressed against the wall, and that sensation is exquisite as she begins to slowly—at first—and rhythmically grind her hips, pulsing her center against mine.

The friction is delicious; the sensation of her hands, long fingers beneath my thighs, causes every single inch of my skin to come alive. She bends low, capturing my left nipple in her mouth, and she doesn't wait to savor anything. She doesn't tease me. She bites.

It's exactly what I need, and somehow, she seems to know that. It's sensual enough that it doesn't hurt, but it's almost at the threshold of pain. With perfect pressure, she uses her tongue to press my nipple against her teeth, flicking it, sucking at it. Both of my nipples are straining, peaked and hard, and she seems to know exactly what she's doing to me as she glances up at me from where she is, bending low to tease me, with such a beautiful smirk.

The water pummels us, raining down on my head, sliding over my shoulders, my breasts, with intoxicating heat, as Shannon bends low again and gives these same ministrations to my right breast. She starts by tracing her tongue up and over the curve of my breast, at the same time that her right hand leaves my right thigh. I still have my leg hooked over her hip, and I keep it there, even as her fingertips trace up and over my skin. She rounds the top of my thigh, and then she dips her hand between us, making space for her arm, just as she takes my right nipple in her mouth.

She bites down, hard, and she slides her slick fingers over my clit.

I gasp out against her, bucking my hips as she slides her fingers, with absolutely no resistance, deep inside of me. She starts with two, but it's obvious that I can take more, and can take more quickly, because she's adding a third as I moan, pressing the back of my head to the wall, gripping her shoulders so tightly with my fingernails that I'm going to leave red crescent moons in her skin...

She gives me short, hard strokes, her thumb sliding over my clit each time she enters me, the heel of her hand pressing hard against it each time she rhythmically strokes in and out. It is exquisite, exactly the right pressure, with a finesse that makes me gasp, makes me cry out unintelligibly.

The water sliding over us, the touch of her teeth against me, how she licks and teases my neck, finally capturing my mouth with hers again, consumes me. I feel everything, the heat of that water, the press of her fingers against my thigh, the way she curves her fingers inside of me, thrusting up and in, using her hips to press her wrist hard against my center, the pressure utterly intoxicating.

The orgasm that hits me then is surprising in its ferocity as I tilt my head back, as I gasp, my entire body transcendent. She presses into me with such intensity that it draws the orgasm out, out, out, and every inch of my skin is shivering from the experience. My legs are quaking as she draws the crescendo out until the very last second...and then she stops. Her wrist no longer presses against me, and she pulls her fingers out of me slowly, softly, almost reverently.

She curves her hands around both of my thighs now as I lean against her, my head pillowed on her shoulder. I wrap my arms around her neck, feeling every last inch of me against every last inch of her.

I take a deep breath, want still pulsing through me, pulsing in time to the aftershocks of that exquisite orgasm. That want should be sated, but it's not. Because I want to feel her beneath my hands, beneath my mouth. _I_ want to feel _her_.

I push off a little from the wall and slide my legs down hers until my shaky feet rest against the ground again. Then I glance up at her, give her a small smile as the hot water continues to pummel us, and I reach up, standing on my shaky toes, wrapping my arms tightly around her neck. And I kiss her.

This kiss is slow, a dance of tongues as I taste her, as I lick her and tease her, my kiss leaving her mouth and tracing down the curve of her strong chin. I kiss her neck, feel her jaw clench against me as I trail my fingernails down her front, over the outside curve of her right breast, over her ribs and down to her stomach. She doesn't make a single sound as I reach up again, taking her right nipple in my fingers, twisting it softly.

Then harder, as I watch her, as my other hand draws nails down, over her left thigh.

Finally, she gasps against my hand as I pull and pluck and tease that nipple, and I smile against her as I lean down, taking her left nipple in my mouth. Like she bit mine, I bite hers, teasing with my teeth, again starting very slowly, sensually, softly, building up the pressure of my love bites harder and harder until she's gasping against me, wrapping her fingers in my hair and pressing me down, harder, against her breast.

I oblige, sucking hard at her nipple, then biting down again. She hisses out, ending with a moan, as I wrap my fingers around her hips, digging in with my nails. I turn and press her back against the wall, too.

And then I crouch down smoothly, the water running over me with the same force as a waterfall. I stare up at the gorgeous woman leaning against the wall above me.

She looks down at me with eyes full of desire, her hands still in my hair. I have my head to the side. A question. Can I? I'm crouching in front of her, my fingers digging into her hips; there is only one question I could possibly be asking. And she nods, biting her lip, pushing against my head gently with her fingers.

Yes, yes, yes. All she is is yes as I lean forward, onto my knees, as I trail my fingers down to the insides of her thighs, gently pushing her legs wider, opening them to me.

And I lean forward all the way, lifting up my face as I press a kiss to her clit.

She shudders against me as I flick my tongue out, as I taste her. It is decadent, the taste of her, musky and sweet and everything I crave as I curve the fingers of my right hand around, touching her center, twisting my fingers as I feel her wetness, pressing up as I press my head forward, as she pushes down on it with her hands, asking, begging with her fingers that twist tighter in my hair.

So I answer her wants with my own. I taste her as the water washes over us; I taste her wetness, electricity crackling inside of me as I realize exactly how wet she is, as my fingers drift over her center. I tease her for a long moment, nudging a knuckle against her opening, but then I can't take it anymore: I want to feel her against me. So slowly, reverently, I turn my hand, curl my fingers up and inside of her.

I move in and out of her at first slowly, but eventually, I build up the rhythmic pace until she's bucking her hips against my mouth, against my hand.

Her taste, the velvet softness of her against my mouth, is a thrill that races through every vein inside of me, my skin hot, electric, as I touch her, as I taste her. The musky wildness of her taste is something that I am going to crave, I realize, as my tongue moves against her, as my fingers feel inside of her.

I am going to crave this again.

I can feel her pulse around my fingers right before she moans, long and low, above me, and then I can feel the orgasm moving against my hand, can feel her entire body pulsing against me as she comes.

I lick her slower, then, drawing my tongue over her clit very, very slowly as I try to play her like a musical instrument, as I try to draw the orgasm out of her for as long as possible. And only when she's shaking against me do I stop, her fingers slack in my hair now, her body loose-limbed and relaxed, as she leans against the wall, as she glances down at me with a slow, lazy smile, tugging my hair a little as she draws me back up her body. I lick my lips as I come up and out of the crouch, and I press my body against her as she smiles against me, wrapping her arms around my neck and shoulders, drawing me to her for a kiss.

She tastes herself on me, because she licks my lips, my chin, drinking it all in as she kisses me fiercely then.

For a long moment, we stay just like that, locked in this warm embrace, weak and spent and so deeply sated...but then the water is starting to turn lukewarm, and bracing cold is next on the agenda, so I take a small step back from her, and I wipe my wet hands up and over my face, giving it a good scrub in the water, before glancing back at her. She nods, and I turn the knobs off.

And then we're standing there, the both of us, wet and naked and utterly sated. She laughs a little, stepping forward, wrapping her arms around me again, her front pressing against mine, her breasts against me, her hips against me. Everything feels so good as she kisses me again softly, slowly.

"You're delicious," Shannon whispers to me, letting her lips find my earlobe and sucking on it gently before she kisses my cheek almost chastely, her mouth closed. She then takes a step back, her mouth curling up at the corners mischievously. "Thanks for that," she tells me, as she slicks her hands over her hair, letting the waves fall over her shoulders as she shakes her head, still smiling softly at me.

But then she sighs out, and though her eyes are still sparking with fire, it's more subdued now. "I...I guess I'll be seeing you," she tells me, almost regretfully, as she steps out of the shower.

"What?" I ask, blinking after her, but then I scoop up my sopping wet jeans and fleece jacket, and I follow out after her, into the searingly bright bathroom hallway.

"You're just going to...just going to leave? Just like that?" I ask her, spluttering, staring at her gorgeous backside as she walks away from me. She stops, turns, taking me in, too, and she smiles appreciatively at me.

"I have someplace to be," she tells me with a small shrug, though her eyes are, again, regretful.

"But...you need clothes," I point out to her, gesturing to her nude body. "You can't waltz like that out into the woods. You'll catch your death."

"I assure you," she tells me, her mouth twitching upward at the corners, "I'll be fine."

"You just can't go out into the woods like that," I tell her again, and it sounds like I'm pleading with her, and that grates on me. But what we just did meant something to me. And I don't want her to disappear.

I'm not a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of girl. And I'm trying not to be clingy, but was that it? What about the connection I feel with her?

What about, "Do you trust me?"

She turns back to me, hands on her hips, chin lifted, her chest rising and falling as she breathes. And as I stand there, as I take in her commanding presence, I'm made breathless by her physique, her breasts, the swell of her hips. Every curve she possesses draws me to her, like a magnet. I realize, as I'm staring at her, that I've been looking for this woman my whole life, and never knew exactly how much I wanted to find her.

Her golden eyes flash with bemusement as she catches my gaze roving over her body. "Well...do you have clothes?" she asks me, her head to the side as she assesses my body, too, partly because she seemingly likes to look at it and partly—I think—to gauge my size. "I don't know if I'd fit in them. I'm bigger than you," she says, gesturing to her height, "but if you'd let me borrow some..."

"Yes!" I say quickly, then gulp down air and smile a little self-consciously. "I mean, I don't have them with me... I have towels here," I tell her, gesturing to my pack, "that you could wrap around yourself, and I have one change of clothes for me, but everything else is in my car."

She nods, glancing to my pack. "Well," she tells me, giving me that lazy smile again as her eyes rove my length once more, causing me to shiver. "Let's go," she murmurs, crossing the space between us, cupping my chin in her hands and tilting my face up to meet hers.

She kisses me slowly, lingeringly this time, before she steps back, scooping the towels out of my pack, handing one to me and taking the other and wrapping it tightly around her body. I towel my hair off, running the fabric over my body quickly as I keep stealing little glances at her. She's leaning against the wall next to the door, and she's watching my motions with hooded eyes.

I don't want to let her out of my sights, but I have the feeling that if she _wanted_ to leave, there's not a single thing I could do to stop her.

It strikes me, as I toss the towel onto the bench, sneaking a glance at her one more time, that she reminds me of something.

She reminds me of something, well... _wild._

I rummage around in my pack and take out my clean pair of panties, my other pair of jeans and a dark gray sweater. I slide everything on, leaving my sodden jeans and fleece where they lie on the bench (I hope they're still here tomorrow—I'll bring them back then), and I toss my towel into my pack.

When I turn to look back at her, Shannon is no longer leaning against the wall; instead, she has the door open just a crack, and she's staring out at the darkness surrounding the bathroom with a frown, her chin lifted, her nose to the air.

She's also...sniffing?

"I'm ready to go," I tell her, and she glances back at me, a warm smile spreading over her face as she nods.

"Let's go together," she tells me, and when I nod, ready to walk past her, she reaches out, curling her fingers over my upper arm gently.

"Stay by me," she tells me, her gaze flicking out to the darkness. "If anything happens," she says, working her jaw, "I will keep you safe."

I blink at her, but then I'm shaking my head. "You don't need to keep me safe," I say gently, reaching up and covering her hand on my arm with my own, squeezing. "I can take care of myself," I say, and I mean it. Also, what was she talking about? There's nothing dangerous out in the woods. It's Allegany State Park. We have rotund, lazy black bears, and that's about it.

She glances at me with surprise, her brows up. "I...I'm sorry," she says, and this suave, smooth woman is actually stammering in front of me. "I didn't mean to offend you," she says, shaking her head. "Of course you can take care of yourself. There are just...dangerous things out in this woods."

"I can take care of myself," I repeat, but my mouth twitches upward at the corners. "But I appreciate the sentiment. That's very sweet."

She smiles at me, too. "I don't doubt that you can," she says, her voice a low growl, but when I walk past her, out into the woods, Shannon lets the bathroom door close behind us, and she remains very, very close by my side, glancing out toward the trees, her nose to the air. Occasionally, I can hear her sniffling, and I glance back, but she's not sniffling. She's actually _sniffing_.

Is she a hunter? A tracker? Does she smell a camper roasting some delicious hot dogs somewhere close by? She catches me watching her, and in the darkness, as we leave the haloed outside light of the bathroom building, I see her white teeth flashing in the dark as she smiles.

But she doesn't offer an explanation.

When we reach my cabin, I unlock my car and drag out my suitcase, locking the trunk behind me. Shannon waits for me up on the porch, glancing out into the woods, her arms crossed in front of her over the towel, her chin lifted, her eyes narrowed. She's beautiful, hauntingly so, as a cool wind moves between the trees, caressing her already drying hair and blowing it to the side, over her shoulder. But she also looks vigilant. Like she's waiting for something to happen. Or perhaps she's waiting for some _one_.

I lug the suitcase up to the porch, and I use my flashlight to help me find the key on my key ring for the cabin. When I turn the lock and open the cabin door, a million memories slam into me, because there is that familiar musty smell, the "you're about to start your vacation" scent of a cabin that hasn't been used for awhile. That scent fills me with memories and anticipations, of all the adventures I've had here, and all the adventures I'm going to have. I spent so much of my life here, and it's so comforting, that smell of old pine and firewood, the ghosts of fires in the potbelly stove in the corner.

I flick the lights on, and the soft glow of the bulbs filters over the wooden walls and cots, the ancient refrigerator unplugged in the corner, and the sagging, equally ancient couch on the far wall. I turn back, pushing the door open, and let Shannon walk past me into the cabin. Then I shut the door behind the both of us, turning the locks.

"You must be cold," Shannon tells me, glancing at me with her brow furrowed. I breathe out into the air, my breath billowing like a cloud of fog between us. Then I nod, shivering a little. I cross the room to the stove, propping it open as I crouch down.

"Aren't you cold?" I ask her, glancing over my shoulder as I begin to crumple old newspaper and shove the wads into the stove's mouth.

She shakes her head, crossing her arms in front of her, her feet hip-width apart. "I don't get cold," she says softly, and I can tell that she's glancing at my rear as I crouch down; a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

"Well, while I get this fire going," I tell her, feeling my cheeks flush as I regard her with a smile, "why don't you dig through my suitcase, see if there's something in there that you think will fit you."

She nods, lifting my suitcase up from the floor like it weighs nothing, and she sets it down on the cot closest to her. The cot sags beneath the weight of the suitcase. I...really don't pack light.

Shannon zips the bag open, and I go back to wadding up crumpled newspaper until I'm satisfied with the nest of it that I've put in the stove. I slide in a few small pieces of kindling, and I strike a long match against the box, delighting in the warm glow as I place the tiny flame against the newspaper in the stove. It immediately alights, and I blow out the match, feeding more kindling to the little fire.

I can hear Shannon rummaging around in the suitcase, but the crackling fire absorbs my attention, until I'm absolutely certain that it's not going to go out. Then I stand up, brushing off my knees as I close the stove door. I turn around.

"Um..." I murmur, licking my lips. "Wow."

Shannon has swept her hair up into a messy bun using one of my hair ties, and she's wearing a bit of the jewelry I brought (Yes, I brought jewelry for camping. No, it wasn't intentional. I hadn't unpacked my small jewelry case from my last work trip two weeks ago, and I still had it packed away in the zippered top of my suitcase). She's wearing a black choker, dripping with little black gems, some bracelets and black earrings that twinkle in the soft lights from overhead. She's also wearing a gray tank top that shows off her muscled (and tanned, I realize now) shoulders clearly. The super sexy effect _should_ stop there, because she's also wearing my black fleece pajama bottoms that are covered in small orange jack-o-lanterns... And, somehow, they look sexy on her.

"Wow," I repeat, licking my lips again and crossing the space between us. "You look..."

She glances down at the pajama bottoms and laughs. It's the first laugh I've heard her make, and I feel myself breathing out, relaxing, as I listen to that gorgeous sound, that warm, low peal of laughter.

"Ridiculous?" she asks me, one brow up, her hands on her hips as she flicks her gaze to me. "I hope you don't mind," she says, lifting up her arms, the bracelets clacking, "but I wanted to get dolled up. This moment is...special," she says, tilting her head.

And then she turns around and lifts the bottle of red wine out of the suitcase with a teasing smile, swinging it from her fingers, a questioning brow raised.

I brought beer, because of _course_ you bring beer camping. But I love wine, and I'd picked up this bottle of red last year and never had a chance to drink it. I thought this trip would be as good a time as any. It's sad that I considered a camping trip the highlight of my year, the time to bring out the good vintage...but there it is.

"I only brought one glass," I tell her apologetically, fishing around in the suitcase for the glass I packed, nestled it in one of my hoodies so that there was no possibility of it getting broken.

"I can drink out of the bottle," she tells me softly, but I shake my head, adamant.

"What, are we animals?" I tell her, shaking my head again, flashing her a small smile. "Nonsense. We can share the glass." I hold it up.

Her mouth twitches at the corners again, but she nods as I bring the corkscrew up and out of the depths of the suitcase; then I open the bottle of wine.

"I'm not a wine snob or anything," I tell her, as I pour the red liquid into the glass, "which is why I'm not letting it breathe."

She's grinning as I hand her the glass. "I don't believe in waiting," she says, and when I glance at her, surprised at the tone in her voice, her eyes are dark as she watches at me.

"I...do," I tell her with a gulp, but then I take a deep breath and grin at her. "I'm not usually a fast mover," I murmur, setting the open bottle down on the little table next to the bed.

Her smile is pure sex as her eyes rake me over, up and down, and then she cocks her head. She brings the glass of wine up to her nose. "Smells great," she says, swirling the contents gently with her wrist as she turns away from me, moving slowly, her hips swaying.

Shannon sinks down on the ancient coach in the corner then, crossing her legs elegantly and putting her arm up along the back of the couch as she gazes at me, one brow raised in question. "Won't you join me, Abby?" she says, the words a soft, sensual growl as she swirls her glass again, watching me.

I'm trying my best not to overthink this, but as I cross the space between us, as I sit down on the creaking couch beside her, my back poker stiff, I wonder what's happening to me.

Because as I looked at her across the room, my heart skipped a beat. A flush of color sprang up in my cheeks. Desire roared through me.

But there was something more, something beyond all that physical stuff.

There was an ache in my heart as I looked at her. A good ache. The kind of ache you feel when something broken is on the mend.

Shannon brings the glass up to her lips and closes her eyes. I watch her as she tilts her head back just a little, her full lips closing over the rim of the glass. She takes the tiniest of sips and savors the wine in her mouth for a moment before swallowing. Then she opens those sparkling golden eyes and holds the glass out to me, giving me her small, secret smile.

"Savor it," she whispers, her fingers brushing against mine as I reach out and touch her hand and grasp the glass.

 _Savor it._ I don't think she's talking about the wine.

"I...will," I say softly. She removes her hand, uncrosses her legs slowly, calculatingly...sexily. And then she recrosses them, all the while gazing into my eyes.

I take a sip of the wine, and I'm pleased with how it tastes. Mellow and smoky, with a hint of vanilla and blackberry. Very nice, very subtle. I reach out, setting the glass down on the little, broken wood coffee table that has served this cabin as long as I've been alive (Mom said she garbage-picked it back in the sixties).

And then I turn and look at Shannon.

And I don't say anything. She said to savor this. So that's exactly what I do as I lean forward, the crouch creaking (very unsexily, I might add) beneath me. I lean close to her, and I linger, my face an inch or so from her own.

I can smell the wine on her breath, can smell the pine in her hair as she smiles at me, as she wraps her arms around me, bringing me close. She brushes her hot mouth against my own, and then she kisses me with a fervor that you'd think all of our antics in the shower would have wiped out—but no. She's even more passionate, if that's possible, when she kisses me now, her tongue moving, insistent, her teeth nibbling my lower lip, everything as slow and lovely as a dance. And when she traces kisses across my cheek, down my chin, down my neck, I gasp out against her. She teases me with her tongue and teeth, sucking the skin a little. I think she just gave me a hickey.

"You don't know," she murmurs against me, drawing me even closer to her, "how long I've waited for this, for you..."

And that's when there comes a knock at the door.

Beside me, Shannon lets out a long, low sigh, her entire body stiffening as she stops kissing me, sitting upright, her mouth wet. She turns, glancing at the front door. "No," she murmurs, and when she glances back at me, her eyes are so pain-filled that my heart aches instantaneously, just to see her like that.

"What's wrong?" I whisper, reaching out to touch her, but she's shaking her head, sitting straighter on the couch.

"It's...too late," she murmurs, running her hand through her hair. Then she looks at me, really looks at me, uncrossing her legs, leaning forward, placing a gentle, warm hand on either side of my face, holding me. "Abby," she says then, her golden gaze boring into mine, her tone fast, soft, urgent. "No matter _what_ she says to you, you have to believe me, okay? You have to—"

"Abby?" comes a woman's voice, loud and menacing, from the other side of the door. "Are you in there with someone? You might be in danger. Open this door immediately."

The flat way she's speaking, the loud, almost yelling tone, the brusqueness...

It's Barbara at the door, I realize, paling.

I hold Shannon's gaze, but then I break away, standing, crossing the room quickly. For a long moment, my hand hovers over the doorknob, but then I take a deep breath, and I unlock the door. I open it just an inch, peering out into the night.

Barbara.

"Hi," I tell her shortly. "What's going on?"

She's standing on the porch with a flashlight, and she shines it into my eyes. I couldn't see if she had anything else on her person—there are rumors that the park rangers possess guns for bear control, and I thought I saw her holding a shotgun in her hand—but I can't see anything now that I'm blinded from the flashlight.

"Abby, are you in there with someone?" she asks, and she's trying to make her voice sound comforting, I can tell, but it's just really coming across as sickly sweet, cloying, and absolutely, one hundred percent fake.

"What's it to you, Barbara?" I ask her carefully, trying to keep my voice light, but it really doesn't come out sounding like that. The flashlight beam goes out of my eyes, and she sighs for a long moment.

"Abby, it's for your own good if you tell me if you're in there with a strange woman. You would have found her naked, possibly wounded, curly brown hair, tall, lanky. She's on the run, and she's dangerous."

For a very long moment, I'm completely unsure of what to do. But then I startle, because there's a warm, gentle hand on my shoulder.

"She already knows I'm here, Abby," says Shannon, her voice low. "It's all right."

I step back, opening the door a little, and across the threshold, tension crackles as Barbara and Shannon stare at one another. Shannon's shoulders are rolled back, and she has her arms crossed in front of her. Barbara just looks shocked to see her.

"How could you have healed it that quickly?" she mutters, narrowing her eyes in suspicion as she stares at Shannon's bare, healthy shoulder.

"What...what's going on here?" I ask, my voice high because I'm honestly a little scared right now—I have no idea what's going on—but I soldier through that flicker of fear, anyway. "Barbara, what's this all about?" I ask her, my voice sharp now, cutting as I ball my hands into fists. "What makes you think you have any right to—"

But Barbara shakes her head, cutting me off as she steps forward, placing her hand aggressively around Shannon's forearm. "You're coming with _me_ ," she snarls, "and we're going to finish what we started."

"No," says Shannon tiredly as she looks at Barbara, her lips up and over her teeth. "You're going to cheat and get everything you want. Because you are a coward," she murmurs, almost as an afterthought, but I can see how hard Barbara is gripping Shannon's forearm. Barbara twists it sharply at that moment, but Shannon makes absolutely no sound, still staring at Barbara with hate in her eyes.

"Hey, you can't just barge in here," I start, and I move toward Barbara, but in that moment, she turns her angry stare on me.

And I stop in my tracks.

Her eyes...they honestly look like she's fevered. Like she's not, in this moment, in her right mind.

She's terrifying.

"No matter what happens, Abby, you have to stay in the cabin," Shannon tells me softly, her words pleading. "Please don't come out. I want you to be safe. You have to stay safe."

And then Barbara moves backward, her fingernails still gripping Shannon's arm, and Shannon follows her out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind her.

I don't even think, and just as instantly, my hand is on the doorknob, and I'm opening it, rushing out onto the porch, glancing around wildly, looking for the two women.

But Barbara and Shannon are nowhere to be seen.

"What..." I whisper, glancing down.

There are two piles of clothes on the porch. One is a park ranger uniform, with a hat and unlit flashlight resting next to it. The other pile consists of jack-o-lantern PJ bottoms, a gray tank top and my jewelry.

I gasp, crouching down, picking up one of the bangle bracelets and staring at it, still warm from lying against Shannon's skin. I'm half-disbelieving, half not-really-wanting-to-believe what I'm seeing with my own two eyes. How is this _possible_? One moment I was on the other side of the door, and the next I was out here. There is no way that they could have slipped out of their clothes and disappeared so quickly, and here might be the most pressing question:

 _Why in the_ world _would they want to take their clothes off, in the first place?_

Feeling the hair on the back of my neck stand up, I scoop Barbara's flashlight from the porch floor and flick it on, shining it into the woods on either side of the porch. There's nothing but pine trees and fallen branches and a carpet of leaves, stretching out into the scary-looking woods.

There's nothing, no one, at all.

For a long, cold moment, I stand there, gripping the flashlight, listening to myself breathing, listening to the absurd quiet of the woods that swallowed two full-grown women whole. There is absolutely nothing moving out among the trees, and not a single sound. It's like they just vanished.

But I grip the flashlight, listen as hard as I can to the quiet of the woods around me, and that's when I hear it, out in the forest to my right...

A...growl. A deep, low, savage growl that reverberates through the trees.

My body reacts instantly. I leap off of the porch, and with the flashlight beam bouncing off the tree trunks, I'm dashing into the woods, following the sound.

Running in the woods at night is no small feat, and really, _really_ not a fun thing. Small branches keep slapping my face with bright pain, even though I duck beneath as many as I can, and they get tangled in my hair mercilessly. There are branches strewn all over the forest floor, and I leap over as many as I can, but one that I don't see trips me up, and I go crashing to the earth, my hands softening my fall (and delivering some pretty nasty brush-burns to my palms).

The flashlight is knocked wildly out of my hand and is lying now, still lit, next to the trunk of a big oak, the beam illuminating some weeds that move to and fro in the light. A small, chill wind is blowing through the woods now.

I groan a little, rubbing at my palms, and I sit very still for a long moment, listening. But the woods are quiet again. I hear the soft _shush_ of the wind in the tree branches around me, causing the hair at the back of my neck to stand on end. I rise gingerly, picking up the flashlight, and I stand motionless, trying to choose a direction. When I turn my flashlight beam toward the forest clearing ahead of me...

I stop, the breath knocked out of my lungs.

Because something impossible is happening in the center of that clearing.

There are two wolves there, and they are fighting each other viciously. It takes me a moment to make sense of that fact, trying to hold my flashlight as steadily as I can in my hand, because I realize, right now, I'm shaking. The two wolves in the clearing are rolling end over end, snarling and growling and biting and snapping. My flashlight beam catches them as they perform a particularly epic flip, one wolf getting shoved out of the clearing, its paws skidding in the earth as it rights itself very close to me.

This wolf has dark brown fur, mottled in black.

It looks...familiar.

I stare at it for a long moment, my eyes going wider as I realize that this is the wolf I thought I saw in the bathroom. But how is that possible?

How is _this_ possible?

I don't get time to think about it or even to react to the fact that a wolf just came so close to me. The wolf gets up, rising quickly to its four paws, and shakes itself off, its ruff bouncing to and fro. And then it glances in my direction.

I flash the beam of light into its eyes, and for a long moment, we remain frozen in place, the wolf looking into the light, and me staring back, eyes narrowed. And then I sit down quickly on the ground, the strength leaving my legs as I crumple, as I gaze into the golden eyes set in that wolf's face.

I'm not staring into wolf eyes.

I'm looking at _human_ eyes.

Eyes I've seen before.

Panic roars through me. Because...no. It can't be. _Can't_ be...but...

If you asked me what I think I see...

This is so crazy.

But the wolf has _Shannon's_ eyes.

It's not possible. I know, absolutely, that this isn't possible.

The wolf shakes itself again, lifting its face to the air, its nose wrinkling, sniffing. I watch it leap back into the center of the meadow, bounding toward the much bigger wolf, with its much bigger teeth, and in that moment, I'm compelled to step closer, to aim my flashlight beam on the two wolves who are standing off from each other, circling one another, hackles up, snarling as they pace.

This other wolf is _huge_. The first wolf, the one that came close to me, stands as tall as my hips. But this other animal? Its shoulders are as tall as _my_ shoulders. I feel like a broken record at this point, but I have to reiterate: _how is that even possible_? The wolf is a typical gray color, but everything about it is a little off, a little wrong: its rippling muscles, its massive height and very large, pointy teeth make it much more imposing than the smaller wolf. And it seems to know this, as it snarls fearlessly, lunging for the smaller wolf.

I shouldn't be here, watching this. I should be running away as fast as I can, back toward the cabin. I should be trying to find Barbara and Shannon.

But that wolf's eyes...

Okay. It's been a very strange night. I could have never predicted or expected any of this. And I know this sounds crazy, and I couldn't tell you exactly why...but I'm utterly compelled to watch this fight...

Well. That's not exactly true.

I'm utterly compelled to root for the smaller wolf.

At first, I try to explain it away: people always root for the underdog (or, you know, under _wolf,_ as the case may be). But the plain, cold truth is that I shouldn't be rooting for _either_ of them. I should be terrified, running away in abject fear.

But for some weird reason...I'm not.

Oh, don't get me wrong: I'm afraid of that big wolf, the way the ground seems to shake when its paws touch down as it paces, hackles up, circling the smaller wolf. But I'm not terrified enough to get myself away to safety. And, honestly, it's not as if either of the wolves are really paying attention to me; they're too absorbed in each other. The first one, the smaller one, did glance in my direction, but she hasn't looked my way since...

Huh. I'm thinking of her as a _she_ now.

That's...weird.

I watch the two wolves lunge at each other, and I try to make peace with how big the one wolf is. Maybe it's just a skewed perspective. The larger gray wolf can't possibly be _that_ large. Maybe there was something in the wine, something that causes strong hallucinations. I know that I'm not dreaming, but I _also_ know that a wolf is never as tall as a horse.

As I aim my flashlight beam at the wolves circling each other, low growling filling the clearing, I gulp. My light isn't strong, but it's strong enough to see that the smaller wolf's back is slick with blood, and that her right leg is cut severely; I'm assuming the wound was inflicted by the other wolf's teeth.

And there isn't a mark on the other wolf, not a piece of fur out of place.

As it circles the smaller wolf, the smaller wolf who lifts up her paw, limping, trying to keep the bigger wolf in front of her at all times...it almost looks as if the bigger one is...smiling.

I shiver, training the flashlight beam back on the smaller wolf.

But that's when the bigger one turns, its nose in the air, its ears pricked forward.

Oh, God...

It's looking at me.

It finally noticed me.

Fear, cold and sharp, rises in me instantly as it turns toward me, its lip curling up higher over its extremely long, extremely white teeth. It lowers its head, and I know, unmistakably, that this is what it looks like when it's hunting something.

The big wolf begins to pad slowly toward me.

Oh, my God. I'm shaking so hard that I almost drop the flashlight, but I think back on everything my parents ever told me about bears. Bears are like wolves, right? If you make a lot of noise, bears don't want to mess with you and will leave you alone.

If I turn and run, it's going to come after me, I just know it. I know how dogs operate; I know that dogs love to chase running things. Surely a wolf would, too. And if that massive creature comes barreling toward me, I don't stand a chance.

So I grab hold of every last scrap of courage inside of myself, and I take a single step forward.

"Hey... Hey, you!" I shout as loudly as I can, waving my arms and the flashlight beam back and forth, very quickly, in its eyes. The wolf is still in the clearing, but it's rapidly closing the distance between us since its legs are so long.

"Hey, you, get out of here!" I shout, kicking leaves up with my legs, trying to be as loud and scary-to-a-wild-animal as possible. I jump up and down, waving my arms, feeling my heart in my throat as the wolf advances.

Yeah, it's not even flinching at my antics.

That's when I realize that I'm in really, _really_ big trouble.

The massive thing advances on me as I hold the flashlight in my shaking hand and try to keep the beam trained on its face. But I have to point the flashlight beam _up_ , and when the wolf gets within ten feet of me, I'm having trouble breathing, because...it's true: the wolf really _is_ that big. It's as tall as I am, even when it's just standing on all fours.

Impossible. But whether it's impossible or not, it's real, and it's right in front of me.

The wolf stomps its front right paw down, its lips over teeth as long as my fingers. It snarls at me, then, its lip wrinkling as the low growl causes my entire body to vibrate. And it does almost look like it's smiling as it lowers its head, as it lowers its whole body, its eyes unblinking and trained on me.

It's getting ready to spring on me, I realize. To spring on me and sink its enormous teeth into my skin and eat me up.

I brace myself. And I take a deep breath, tensing.

But the wolf doesn't attack me. Because the smaller wolf chooses that moment to ram itself into the side of the big gray wolf. The big wolf hardly moves when the smaller animal collides with it, but it moves quickly, turning, snarling, picking up the smaller wolf in its teeth and shaking her like a rag doll.

I gasp, my hand over my mouth as the smaller wolf goes sailing into a tree, thrown by the big wolf's jaws. And I couldn't tell you why I do it; my body moves of its own accord: I run straight toward the fallen wolf.

I kneel down beside it, tears springing into my eyes as I see all of the lacerations and wounds crisscrossing the creature's body. It's obvious that the larger wolf has every advantage, and still this wolf bravely fought it. Why? None of this makes sense. Just like it makes no sense that I was compelled to see if the wolf was all right. I can't help it. I can't save it. And it's a wild animal—I shouldn't even be trying.

But that's when the wolf looks up at me again, her golden eyes glowing. Those beautiful, golden eyes that are so incredibly familiar. I gulp down air; a tear courses over my cheek.

It's crazy, ludicrous, what I'm about to do, but I do it, anyway.

"Shannon?" I whisper into the dark.

And slowly, painfully, the wolf blinks her golden eyes—and she nods her head.

I breathe out, my heart rate skyrocketing as the wolf rolls over, as she gingerly climbs to her feet, limping as she holds up her front right paw. She gazes back at the big wolf, and she lifts her chin proudly.

Is this even happening? I feel the muddy ground beneath my knees, feel the flashlight in my hands. It all feels very real, too real. I draw in a deep breath as the smaller wolf lunges, again, for the bigger one.

Did she really nod?

Is she really Shannon?

I try to piece everything together in my head as I pale further. Earlier tonight, there was a wolf—this wolf—in the center of the bathroom floor, and when I looked again, a few _seconds_ later, Shannon was there. At the time, it was convenient to think that I'd imagined the wolf (but, really, is this something people _imagine_? I mean, my imagination is pretty good, but not _that_ good!). But now, thinking about it...

My mouth goes dry.

Do I really believe that the wolf in front of me is Shannon? And that she's, well, a werewolf? That's utterly insane.

But I entertain the thought for a nanosecond. Because if that wolf is Shannon, does that mean that this other wolf...

Is _Barbara_?

I think back on all the times Barbara made me feel uneasy when I was growing up, all the things about her that never quite made sense. I was, instinctively, scared of her, even though I wasn't usually scared of adults, not even the adults I _should_ have been scared of. There was just something ominous about her that I felt but never could place, and sometimes, when she looked at me...

I try to breathe, find that I'm kind of failing.

Barbara always looked like she wanted to eat me.

The larger wolf chooses this exact moment to look back over its shoulder. It just bit the smaller wolf again, delivering a vicious wound to her back left leg. Blood leaks down onto the carpet of leaves at the wolves' feet. The bigger wolf staring back at me now licks its lips, and it turns, coming for me.

Oh, my God. I scramble to my feet, keeping the flashlight beam trained on the wolf. I peer over its shoulder, and my heart sinks as I catch sight of the smaller wolf, trying to stand, swaying.

Whatever is happening right now, whether it's two wolves fighting, or whether it's two werewolves fighting...the big one is winning.

And the smaller one doesn't stand a chance.

I feel, in my gut, that this isn't right. There's something in me that deems this as incredibly unfair.

I'm not an extraordinarily brave person, but justice is pretty important to me. It also helps, adrenaline-wise, that I'm about to get eaten by this big wolf. I take two steps forward and swing my flashlight—the big, heavy-duty park ranger flashlight that Barbara had been carrying—at the wolf's head.

The metal flashlight connects with bone, and there is a sickening _thud._ The wolf yelps, taking a step back, sneezing and shaking its head.

And that's when the smaller wolf steps up.

And she lunges at the big wolf.

Again, they go rolling end over end, but this time, it's the smaller wolf who comes out on top, snarling as she clamps her jaws around the bigger wolf's throat, a lucky gamble, but she's clinging to its throat, biting down for all she's worth.

For a long moment, nothing happens. The two wolves stand there, the smaller one gripping the bigger wolf's throat in her jaws. But then, with a shuddering groan, the bigger wolf rolls down, lying on its side on the ground, crumpling.

And before my eyes, something very strange happens.

The big gray wolf begins to shrink. That's the best way to describe what I'm seeing, what I'm _impossibly_ seeing, but there it is: the wolf is growing smaller. But that's not all that's happening. The wolf's back legs grow longer, while its front legs grow shorter, and its nose begins to push back, into its head...

At the same time that the fur begins to disappear...

I stare as a woman's shape begins to materialize out of the mass of wolf. A woman's shape that becomes, in a few short heartbeats...Barbara.

At the same time, the smaller wolf is changing, too, though her outline blurs much quicker. One moment, I think I'm staring at a wolf, and the next moment I'm not.

Because there—on the forest floor—is Barbara, kneeling down, growling, completely naked. While Shannon stands beside her, swaying on her two feet, blood dripping down her arms...also completely naked.

The two women stare at each other, ice in their eyes, their breath puffing out of their mouths like ghosts.

"Is this..." I whisper, gasping. "Is this...really happening?"

And though my words were very, very quiet, Shannon, ten feet from me, nods resolutely.

"Yes. It's really happening, Abby," she growls softly, glancing up at me quickly, then back down to Barbara, still glaring daggers up at her from her kneeling position. Barbara's hand is at her neck, massaging the back of it almost ruefully.

When Shannon stares down at Barbara, there is anger in face, yes. But there's also pain. Blood is dripping from her wounds onto the leaves at her feet, blood pouring out of several wounds, more than I can see. My heart is in my throat.

"You'll still have to leave," says Barbara then, her voice twisted into a terrible, wolfish snarl as she sneers up at Shannon, spitting on the ground at her feet. "You know that no one saw us fight. This," she says, waving her hand between them, " _doesn't count_. You will _never_ catch me off my guard again," she says, her mouth in a wide, leering smile, "and unless the pack saw the fight—it's over. You will _never_ be alpha."

"What going on?" I ask weakly, and Shannon glances quickly at me again before staring back down at Barbara, her eyes distant.

For a long moment, no one speaks. Barbara pants, Shannon breathes slowly, carefully, and I watch the two of them in disbelief.

Finally, Shannon's lips part. "I've lived here all my life," she says then, tiredly, in explanation. "Well...around here. In Olean, really. I was part of a pack that Barbara ran. But Barbara," Shannon snarls then, "is not a, shall we say, _good person._ And she took the pack from my mother by force. My mother was a good alpha. But Barbara murdered her," she whispers into the air.

I stare at Barbara, my eyes wide. I remember all of the times I feared that woman. Though all of this is very hard to make sense of, I can make sense of this much: I was right. Barbara is not, as Shannon put it, a good person.

"I wanted to get back what was my mother's," says Shannon, lifting her face and glancing at me now. There are bright tears standing in her golden eyes, and it breaks my heart to see them. "And to become an alpha, you must challenge the current alpha. And I did," she whispers. "And I lost, due to a technicality," Shannon spits out bitterly.

"Of course you lost," growls Barbara then. "You're as weak as your mother." She rises smoothly to her feet, with a wide smile.

But Shannon turns. And the look that comes over her face, her golden eyes flashing with such a hateful, intense fire, renders her terrifying. Shannon's entire body tenses, and she takes one long, slow, calculating step closer to Barbara.

"Be _ready_ ," she whispers, the words carrying into the night.

Those are, apparently, the words spoken when a werewolf fight is on, because Barbara snarls, and as I watch, her human face suddenly loses its humanity, watch her teeth grow long, pointy, terrifying. And I'm _shocked_ in that moment how quickly Shannon transforms. She is Shannon, the human I know—the human I made love to not an hour ago—one moment, and within the very next heartbeat, she is something else entirely. She is a wolf, and she throws back her head.

And she _howls._

It is mournful, like every recording of a wolf I've ever heard, but there is something else to it, in the darkness. Something sad and long and low and beautiful. The music of it makes my heart rise and ache, all at once.

But then Shannon isn't howling anymore. Instead, she's lowering her head, and she gazes at Barbara, and she lunges for the much bigger wolf-woman. Barbara is only half-transformed, is right now a weird-looking half-human, half-wolf hybrid, with pointy teeth and extra-long ears and patchy fur all over her naked body. The two creatures meet, and they tumble across the forest floor together, snarling and snapping and growling, their claws or half-claws trying to gain purchase on each other's bodies, their teeth scrabbling to make contact and create pain.

As I stare at them, as I train my flashlight beam on them, trying to make out who might be winning this time, I feel a strange presence at my back.

I turn, every hair on the back of my neck standing up, and I see them, so _many_ of them:

Wolves.

They flow around me as if I'm a stone in the middle of a river. They move fluidly, in sync, like the pack they are. I count about fifteen wolves before I stop counting, before I take a step back, gulping as they move past me, not even glancing in my direction.

They're staring at the two women, the two wolves, locked in combat, their noses pointed to the pair like a north star. The wolves' pelts range in color from red to somber gray to black, and though they are all very different, these wolves have one thing in common.

They pause in their relentless motion. They stand still, the wind moving across their fur, and as they stand together, they throw back their heads.

They lift their faces to the moon, a slim sickle of light overhead.

And they howl.

The two wolves fighting in the forest clearing—each of them fully formed now—pause in the midst of their battle. They back off from one another, huffing, shaking their ruffs, and they glance back at the other wolves.

And, folding forward, growing fluidly, the fur disappearing into her smooth, tan skin, Shannon transforms to her human self.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself, my hair still standing on end.

 _What's happening?_ I want to ask her, as she stares at the other wolves, eyes wide. But I don't say a word. I remain crouched, silent.

Shannon only nods once, and then she turns to me.

"They're speaking," Shannon whispers, and she watches me with tears in her eyes. "They said that they saw me defeat her. They said that it's over. That I'm alpha now." Shannon is shaking her head, stepping forward. "They say," she murmurs, gazing at me with her warm golden eyes, "that because you were here and you saw it...it counts. They felt it and heard it, but you were _here_."

Barbara is also in her human form now, and she's snarling at me. "Of _course_ she doesn't count!" she bellows at the other wolves. "She is not part of the pack! She's not even _were!_ This is _insane!_ "

I turn to glance back at all of the wolves, but they're not looking at me; their noses are up, quivering as they sniff in the dark. And they are all looking at Shannon. So I turn back, and I look at her, too. I look at her shining, golden eyes as she comes close to me, gathering me in her arms and drawing me to her.

"You've been coming here since you were very small," she whispers then, into my ear, her breath warm against my skin, her bare body radiating heat against me. I sigh, lowering my head to her shoulder, all of the adrenaline pooling out of me. "I saw you," she murmurs to me, nuzzling my hair with her nose, kissing my neck. "I saw you back then, when I was a kid, too. You belong here. You've always belonged here. You count."

Barbara snarls, but all of the wolves remain silent and still, sentinels staring at her. I can't tell what they're saying, but this much is clear: it's over. Barbara stands for a long moment, staring at the two of us with such anger and hatred on her face that the poison of it is palpable in the air. But then she's limping past us as the other wolves circle, moving with her, escorting her away, the lot of them disappearing into the woods like so much smoke.

And that leaves just the two of us standing here—one woman fully clothed, and, you know, human. The other completely naked.

And, you know, a _werewolf_.

"This is...this is all so crazy," I whisper to Shannon as she takes my face in her hands, gazing down at me.

"I know," she says, brow wrinkling, her mouth turning up ruefully at the corners. "I'm sorry for that. Most weres never even tell their partners what they are... You know, the whole worldview imploding thing." She chuckles again, and again, the sound of her laughter, so rich and warm, makes a shiver of happiness run through me.

Yeah, it's impossible that this is happening. But it _is_ happening.

I'm just going to go with it.

"You know," I tell her, my heart beginning to beat even faster, "I...um. Well, my family owns this cabin," I tell her with a small smile, gesturing back through the trees in the direction that I think the cabin might be.

Shannon raises a single brow.

"This is the oddest one-night stand ever," I tell her, and I'm smiling a little more now. "But I...really like you. Um. Everything is weird, and it's going to take some getting used to," I say, "but...can I possibly...see you again?"

She's grinning now. Grinning like a wolf.

"I'd like that," she says, leaning down and kissing me. It is a fierce kiss, a soft kiss, and she tastes like pine and mint and cold, fall evenings, like the evening curling around us now, the forest moving quietly, each branch dancing in a soft, chill wind.

"So," I tell her, when we finally break away for air, "if it's not a one-night stand..." I lift my brows, too, as I smile a little at her. "That would make this... A first date?"

She laughs again, pulling me close, an arm around my shoulders as she shakes her head, the warmth of her body radiating into me. "The oddest first date ever."

I smile at her and give her another small kiss, wrapping my arms around her bare waist.

"Oh, I don't know," I tell her, her heat chasing away the cold of the night. "I liked it," I tell her, which is a stretch for some of the activities of the evening...but then I tell her the absolute truth, breathing it out into the cool, dark air, "I like _you_."

She raises a lovely brow, and then she's grinning as she pulls me back toward the cabin. Her wounds, I'm realizing, are already gone. I apparently have a lot to learn about werewolves.

"Let's see if I can get you to _love_ this date, then," she tells me, her voice soft and low, sending a shiver of pleasure racing through me.

I take her hand and let her draw me back to the cabin, where the warm glow of light spills out through the familiar, comforting windows, chasing away the dark.


End file.
